THE  IDLE  THOUGHTS 

OF  AN  IDLE  FELLOW 


A  BOOK  FOR 

AN  IDLE  HOLIDAY 


BY 
JEROME   K.   JEROME 

ATJTHOR   OF    "THREE   MEN   IN   A   BOAT,"  ETC, 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


TO 
THE  VERY  I52AR  AND  WELL-BELOVED 


jfrlen& 


OF  MY  PROSPEROUS  AND  EVIL  DAYS— 

TO  THE  FRIEND 

WHO,  THOUGH,   IN  THE  EARLY   STAGES  OF   OUR  ACQUAINTANCI^ 

SHIP,    DID   OFTTIMES   DISAGREE  WITH   ME,    HAS   SINCE 

BECOME  TO  BE  MY  VERY  WARMEST  COMRADE — 

TO  THE   FRIEND 
WHC.    HOWEVER    OFTEN    I    MAY    PUT    HIM    OUT,    NEVER    (NOW) 
UPSETS  ME  IN  REVENGE- 
TO   THE   FRIEND 
WHO,    TREATED  WITH   MARKED  COOLNESS    BY  ALL  THE  FEMALF 
MEMBERS   OF   MY   HOUSEHOLD,    AND   REGARDED  WITH   SUSPI- 
CION   BY    MY    VERY    DOG,    NEVERTHELESS,     SEEMS    DAY 
BY    DAY    TO    BE     MORE     DRAWN     BY    ME,    AND     IN 
BETURN,  TO  MORE  AND  MORE  IMPREGNATE  ME 
WITH  THE  ODOR  OF  HIS  FRIENDSHIP — 

TO  THE  FRIEND 

WHO    NEVER   TELLS    ME    OF   MY   FAULTS,    NEVER   WANTS    TO 

BORROW   MONEY,   AND   NEVER  TALKS   ABOUT   HIMSELF — 

TO  THE   COMPANION 

OF   MY   IDLE   HOURS.    THE   SOOTHER   OF   MY   SORROWS, 

THE  CONFIDANT   OF   MY   JOYS   AND   HOPES — 

MY  OLDEST  AND    STRONGEST 


pipe, 


THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME 

IS 
GRATEFULLY  AND  AFFECTIONATELY 

DEDICATED. 


^f^6b 


^k>*J 


PREFACE. 

One  or  two  friends  to  whom  I  showed  these 
papers  in  MS.  having  observed  that  they  were 
not  half  bad ;  and  some  of  my  relations  having 
promised  to  buy  the  book,  if  it  ever  came  out, 
I  feel  I  have  no  right  to  longer  delay  its  issue. 
But  for  this,  as  one  may  say,  public  demand,  I, 
perhaps,  should  not  have  ventured  to  offer  these 
mere  "idle  thoughts'*  of  mine  as  mental  food 
for  the  English-speaking  peoples  of  the  earth. 
What  readers  ask  nowadays  in  a  book  is  that 
it  should  improve,  instruct,  and  elevate.  This 
book  wouldn't  elevate  a  cow.  I  cannot  con- 
scientiously recommend  it  for  any  useful  purposes 
whatever.  All  I  can  suggest  is,  that  when  you 
get  tired  of  reading  "  the  best  hundred  books," 
you  may  take  this  up  for  half  an  hour.  It  will 
be  a  change. 


I 

I 


CONTENTS, 


PAOB 

On  being  Idle,  --..••  ..j 

On  being  in  Love,  ....••.  13 
On  being  in  the  Blues,  ••-••••>  27 
On  being  Hard  Up,  ..•..--  37 
On  Vanity  and  Vanities,  --..--  49 
On  Getting  on  in  the  World,  .  .  •  •  •  63 
On  the  Weather,  ---.-..-75 
On  Cats  and  Dogs,       ..•••.  92 

On  being  Shy, 113 

On  Babies,      ..••.••..128 
On  Eating  and  Drink/ng,       ------  142 

On  Furnished  Apartments,  ---••-     157 

On  Dress  and  Depori  hient, 174 

On  Mksiory,  190 


THE  IDLE  THOUGHTS 

OF 

AN    IDLE    FELLOW. 


ON  BEING  IDLE. 

^^T  OW  this  is  a  subject  on  which  I  flatter 
^  ^  myself  I  really  am  au  fait.  The  gentle- 
man who,  when  I  was  young,  bathed  me  at  wis- 
dom's font  for  nine  guineas  a  term — no  extras — 
used  to  say  he  never  knew  a  boy  who  could  do 
less  work  in  more  time;  and  I  remember  my 
poor  grandmother  once  incidentally  observing,  in 
the  course  of  an  instruction  upon  the  use  of  the 
prayer-book,  that  it  was  highly  improbable  that  I 
should  ever  do  much  that  I  ought  not  to  do,  but, 
that  she  felt  convinced  beyond  a  doubt,  that  I 
should  leave  undone  pretty  well  everything  that 
I  ought  to  do. 

I  am  afraid  I  have  somewhat  belied  half  the 
dear  old  lady's  prophecy.  Heaven  help  me!  I 
have  done  a  good  many  things  that  I  ought  not 


«  ON  BEING  IDLE. 

to  have  done,  in  spite  of  my  laziness.  But  I 
have  fully  confirmed  the  accuracy  of  her  judg- 
ment so  far  as  neglecting  much  that  I  ought  not 
to  have  neglected  is  concerned.  Idling  always 
has  been  my  strong  point.  I  take  no  credit  to 
myself  in  the  matter — it  is  a  gift.  Few  possess 
it.  There  are  plenty  of  lazy  people  and  plenty 
of  slow-coaches,  but  a  genuine  idler  is  a  rarity. 
He  is  not  a  man  who  slouches  about  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  On  the  contrary,  his  most 
startling  characteristic  is  that  he  is  always 
intensely  busy. 

It  is  impossible  to  enjoy  idling  thoroughly 
unless  one  has  plenty  of  work  to  do.  There  is 
no  fun  in  doing  nothing  when  you  have  nothing 
to  do.  Wasting  time  is  merely  an  occupation 
then,  and  a  most  exhausting  one.  Idleness,  like 
kisses,  to  be  sweet  must  be  stolen. 

Many  years  ago,  when  I  was  a  young  man,  I 
was  taken  very  ill — I  never  could  see  myself  that 
much  was  the  matter  with  me,  except  that  I  had 
a  beastly  cold.  But  I  suppose  it  was  something 
very  serious,  for  the  doctor  said  that  I  ought  to 
have  come  to  him  a  month  before,  and  that  if  it 
(whatever  it  was)  had  gone  on  for  another  week 


ON  BEING  IDLE,  3 

he  would  not  have  answered  for  the  conse- 
quences. It  is  an  extraordinary  thing,  but  I 
never  knew  a  doctor  called  into  any  case  yet,  but 
what  it  transpired  that  another  day's  delay  would 
have  rendered  cure  hopeless.  Our  medical  guide, 
philosopher,  and  friend  is  like  the  hero  in  a  melo- 
drama, he  always  comes  upon  the  scene  just,  and 
only  just,  in  the  nick  of  time.  It  is  Providence, 
that  is  what  it  is. 

Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I  was  very  ill,  and  was 
ordered  to  Buxton  for  a  month,  with  strict  in- 
junctions to  do  nothing  whatever  all  the  while 
that  I  was  there.  "Rest  is  what  you  require," 
said  the  doctor,  ''perfect  rest." 

It  seemed  a  delightful  prospect.  "This  man 
evidently  understands  my  complaint,"  said  I,  and 
I  pictured  to  myself  a  glorious  time — a  four 
weeks*  dolce  far  niente  with  a  dash  of  illness 
in  it.  Not  too  much  illness,  but  just  illness 
enough — just  sufficient  to  give  it  the  flavor  of 
suffering,  and  make  it  poetical.  I  should  get  up 
late,  sip  chocolate,  and  have  my  breakfast  in 
slippers  and  a  dressing-gown.  I  should  lie  out  in 
the  garden  in  a  hammock,  and  read  sentimental 
novels     with    a    melancholy    ending,    until   the 


4  ON  BEING  IDLE, 

book  should  fall  from  my  listless  hand,  and  I 
should  recline  there,  dreamily  gazing  into  the 
deep  blue  of  the  firmament,  watching  the  fleecy 
clouds,  floating  like  white-sailed  ships,  across  its 
depths,  and  listening  to  the  joyous  song  of  the 
birds,  and  the  low  rustling  of  the  trees.  Or,  on 
becoming  too  weak  to  go  out  of  doors,  1  should 
sit  propped  up  with  pillows,  at  the  open  window 
of  the  ground  floor  front,  and  look  wasted  and 
interesting,  so  that  all  the  pretty  girls  would  sigh 
as  they  passed  by. 

And,  twice  a  day,  I  should  go  down  in  a  Bath 
chair  to  the  Colonnade,  to  drink  the  waters.  Oh, 
those  waters!  I  knew  nothing  about  them  then, 
and  was  rather  taken  with  the  idea.  "Drinking 
the  waters"  sounded  fashionable  and  Queen 
Annefied,  and  I  thought  I  should  like  them. 
But,  ugh!  after  the  first  three  or  four  mornings! 
Sam  Weller's  description  of  them,  as  "having  a 
taste  of  warm  flat-irons,"  conveys  only  a  faint 
idea  of  their  hideous  nauseousness.  If  anything 
could  make  a  sick  man  get  well  quickly,  it  would 
be  the  knowledge  that  he  must  drink  a  glassful  of 
them  every  day  until  he  was  recovered.  I  drank 
them   neat    for   six   consecutive   days,  and    they 


ON  BEING  IDLE,  5 

nearly  killed  me;  but,  after  then,  I  adopted  the 
plan  of  taking  a  stiff  glass  of  brandy  and  water 
immediately  on  the  top  of  them,  and  found  much 
relief  thereby.  I  have  been  informed  since,  by 
various  eminent  medical  gentlemen,  that  the 
alcohol  must  have  entirely  counteracted  the 
effects  of  the  chalybeate  properties  contained  in 
the  water.  I  am  glad  I  was  lucky  enough  to  hit 
upon  the  right  thing. 

But  "drinking  the  waters"  was  only  a  small 
portion  of  the  torture  I  experienced  during  that 
memorable  month,  a  month  which  was,  without 
exception,  the  most  miserable  I  have  ever  spent. 
During  the  best  part  of  it,  I  religiously  followed 
the  doctor's  mandate,  and  did  nothing  whatever, 
except  moon  about  the  house  and  garden,  and  go 
out  for  two  hours  a  day  in  a  Bath  chair.  That 
did  break  the  monotony  to  a  certain  extent. 
There  is  more  excitement  about  Bath-chairing — 
especially  if  you  are  not  used  to  the  exhilarating 
exercise — than  might  appear  to  the  casual  ob- 
server. A  sense  of  danger,  such  as  a  mere  out- 
sider might  not  understand,  is  ever  present  to  the 
mind  of  the  occupant.  He  feels  convinced  every 
minute  that   the  whole  concern  is  going  over,  a 


6    ■  ON  BEING  IDLE. 

conviction  which  becomes  especially  lively  when- 
ever a  ditch  or  a  stretch  of  newly  macadamized 
road  comes  in  sight.  Every  vehicle  that  passes 
he  expects  is  going  to  run  into  him ;  and  he 
never  finds  himself  ascending  or  descending  a 
hill,  without  immediately  beginning  to  speculate 
upon  his  chances,  supposing — as  seems  extremely 
probable — that  the  weak-knee'd  controller  of  his 
destiny  should  let  go. 

But  even  this  diversion  failed  to  enliven  after 
a  while,  and  the  ennui  became  perfectly  unbear- 
able. I  felt  my  mind  giving  way  under  it.  It  is 
not  a  strong  mind,  and  I  thought  it  would  be  un- 
wise to  tax  it  too  far.  So  somewhere  about  the 
twentieth  morning,  I  got  up  early,  had  a  good 
breakfast,  and  walked  straight  off  to  Hayfield  at 
the  foot  of  the  Kinder  Scout — a  pleasant,  busy, 
little  town,  reached  through  a  lovely  valley,  and 
with  two  sweetly  pretty  women  in  it.  At  least 
they  were  sweetly  pretty  then ;  one  passed  me  on 
the  bridge,  and,  I  think,  smiled ;  and  the  other 
was  standing  at  an  open  door,  making  an  unre- 
munerative  investment  of  kisses  upon  a  red-faced 
baby.  But  it  is  years  ago,  and  I  daresay  they 
have  both  grown  stout  and  snappish  since  that 


ON  BEING  IDLE.  7 

time.  Coming  back,  I  saw  an  old  man  breaking 
stones,  and  it  roused  such  strong  longing  in  me 
to  use  my  arms,  that  I  offered  him  a  drink  to  let 

.  me  take  his  place.  He  was  a  kindly  old  man, 
and  he  humored  me.  I  went  for  those  stones 
with  the  accumulated  energy  of  three  weeks,  and 
did  more  work  in  half  an  hour  than  he  had  done 
all  day.     But  it  did  not  make  him  jealous. 

Having  taken  the  plunge,  I  went  further  and 
further  into  dissipation,  going  out  for  a  long  walk 
every  morning,  and  listening  to  the  band  in  the 
Pavilion  every  evening.  But  the  days  still 
passed  slowly  notwithstanding,  and  I  was  heartily 
glad  when  the  last  one  came,  and  I  was  being 
whirled  away  from  gouty,  consumptive  Buxton 
to  London  with  its  stern  work  and  life.  I  looked 
out  of  the  carriage  as  we  rushed  through  Hen- 
don  in  the  evening.  The  lurid  glare  overhanging 
the  mighty  city  seemed  to  warm  my  heart  and 
when,  later  on,  my  cab  rattled  out  of  St.  Pancras' 
station,  the  old  familiar  roar  that  came  swelling 
up  around  me  sounded  the  sweetest  music  I  had 
heard  for  many  a  long  day. 

I  certainly  did  not  enjoy  that  month's  idling. 

\\  like  idling  when  I  ought  not  to  be  idling;  not 


8  ON  BEING  IDLE. 

when  it  is  the  only  thing  I  have  to  do.)  That  is 
my  pig-headed  nature.  The  time  when  I  like 
best  to  stand  with  my  back  to  the  fire,  calcula- 
ting how  much  I  owe,  is  when  my  desk  is  heaped 
highest  with  letters  that  must  be  answered  by 
the  next  post.  When  I  like  to  dawdle  longest 
over  my  dinner,  is  when  I  have  a  heavy  evening's 
work  before  me.  And  if,  for  some  urgent  reason, 
I  ought  to  be  up  particularly  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, it  is  then,  more  than  at  any  other  time,  that 
I  love  to  lie  an  extra  half-hour  in  bed. 

Ah!  how  delicious  it  is  to  turn  over  and  go  to 
sleep  again:  "just  for  five  minutes."  Is  there 
any  human  being,  I  wonder,  besides  the  hero  of 
a  Sunday-school  "tale  for  boys,"  who  ever  gets  up 
willingly?  There  are  some  men  to  whom  getting 
up  at  the  proper  time  is  an  utter  impossibility. 
If  eight  o'clock  happens  to  be  the  time  that  they 
should  turn  out,  then  they  lie  till  half-past.  If 
circumstances  change,  and  half-past  eight  be- 
comes early  enough  for  them,  then  it  is  nine 
before  they  can  rise ;  they  are  like  the  statesman 
of  whom  it  was  said  that  he  was  always  punc- 
tually half  an  hour  late.  They  try  all  manner  of 
schemes.     They  buy  alarm  clocks  (artful  contriv- 


ON  BEING  IDLE.  9 

ances  that  go  off  at  the  wrong  time,  and  alarm 
the  wrong  people).  They  tell  Sarah  Jane  to 
knock  at  the  door  and  call  them,  and  Sarah  Jane 
does  knock  at  the  door,  and  does  call  them,  and 
they  grunt  back  "awri,"  and  then  go  comfortably 
to  sleep  again.  I  knew  one  man  who  would 
actually  get  out,  and  have  a  cold  bath ;  and  even 
that  was  of  no  use,  for,  afterwards,  he  would 
jump  into  bed  again  to  warm  himself. 

I  think  myself  that  I  could  keep  out  of  bed  all 
right,  if  I  once  got  out.  It  is  the  wrenching 
away  of  the  head  from  the  pillow  that  I  find  so 
hard,  and  no  amount  of  over-night  determination 
makes  it  easier.  I  say  to  myself,  after  having 
wasted  the  whole  evening,  "Well,  I  wont  do  any 
more  work  to-night ;  I'll  get  up  early  to-morrow 
morning";  and  I  am  thoroughly  resolved  to  do 
so — then.  In  the  morning,  however,  I  feel  less 
enthusiastic  about  the  idea,  and  reflect  that  it 
would  have  been  much  better  if  I  had  stopped 
up  last  night.  And  then  there  is  the  trouble  of 
dressing,  and  the  more  one  thinks  about  that,  the 
more  one  wants  to  put  it  ofT. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  this  bed,  this  mimic  grave, 
where  we  stretch  our  tired  limbs,  and  sink  away 


lO  ON  BEING  IDLE. 

SO  quietly  into  the  silence  and  rest.  "Oh  bed,  oh 
bed,  delicious  bed,  that  heaven  on  earth  to  the 
weary  head,"  as  sang  poor  Hood,  you  are  a  kind 
old  nurse  to  us  fretful  boys  and  girls.  Clever 
and  foolish,  naughty  and  good,  you  take  us  all  in 
your  motherly  lap,  and  hush  our  wayward  crying. 
The  strong  man  full  of  care — the  sick  man  full  of 
pain — the  little  maiden,  sobbing  for  her  faithless 
lover — like  children,  we  lay  our  aching  heads  on 
your  white  bosom,  and  you  gently  soothe  us  off 
to  by-by. 

Our  trouble  is  sore  indeed,  when  you  turn 
away,  and  will  not  comfort  us.  How  long  the 
dawn  seems  coming,  when  we  cannot  sleep !  Oh ! 
those  hideous  nights,  when  we  toss  and  turn  in 
fever  and  pain,  when  we  lie,  like  living  men 
among  the  dead,  staring  out  into  the  dark  hours 
that  drift  so  slowly  between  us  and  the  light. 
And  oh!  those  still  more  hideous  nights,  when 
we  sit  by  another  in  pain,  when  the  low  fire  start- 
les us  every  now  and  then  with  a  falling  cinder, 
and  the  tick  of  the  clock  seems  a  hammer,  beat- 
ing out  the  life  that  we  are  watching. 

But  enough  of  beds  and  bed-rooms.  I  have 
kept  to  them  too  long,  even  for   an   idle  fellow. 


ON  BEING  IDLE.  W 

Let  us  come  out,  and  have  a  smoke.  That 
wastes  time  just  as  well,  and  does  not  look  so 
bad.  Tobacco  has  been  a  blessing  to  us  idlers. 
[  What  the  civil  service  clerks  before  Sir  Walter's 
time  found  to  occupy  their  minds  with,  it  is  hard 
to  imagine.  I  attribute  the  quarrelsome  nature 
of  the  Middle  Ages  young  men  entirely  to  the 
want  of  the  soothing  weed.  They  had  no  work 
to  do,  and  could  not  smoke,  and  the  consequence 
was  they  were  for  ever  fighting  and  rowing.  If, 
by  any  extraordinary  chance,  there  was  no  war 
going,  then  they  got  up  a  deadly  family  feud  with 
the  next-door  neighbor,  and  if,  in  spite  of  this, 
they  still  had  a  few  spare  moments  on  their  hands, 
they  occupied  them  with  discussions  as  to  whose 
sweetheart  was  the  best  looking,  the  arguments 
employed  on  both  sides  being  battle-axes,  clubs, 
etc.  Questions  of  taste  were  soon  decided  in 
those  days.  When  a  twelfth  century  youth  fell 
in  love,  he  did  not  take  three  paces  backwards, 
gaze  into  her  eyes,  and  tell  her  she  was  too  beau- 
tiful to  live.  He  said  he  would  step  outside  and 
see  about  it.  And  if,  when  he  got  out,  he  met  a 
man  and  broke  his  head — the  other  man's  head,  I 
mean — then  that  proved  that  his — the  first  fel* 


12  ON  BEING  IDLE. 

low's  girl — was  a  pretty  girl.  But  if  the  other 
fellow  broke  his  head — not  his  own,  you  know, 
but  the  other  fellow's — the  other  fellow  to  the 
second  fellow,  that  is,  because  of  course  the  other 
fellow  would  only  be  the  other  fellow  to  him,  not 
the  first  fellow,  who — well,  if  he  broke  his  head, 
then  his  girl — not  the  other  fellow's  but  the  fel- 
low who  was  the — Look  here,  if  A  broke  B's 
head,  then  A's  girl  was  a  pretty  girl ;  but  if  B 
broke  A's  head,  then  A's  girl  wasn't  a  pretty  girl, 
but  B's  girl  was.  That  was  their  method  of  con- 
ducting art  criticism. 

Nowadays  we  light  a  pipe,  and  let  the  girls 
fight  it  out  amongst  themselves. 

They  do  it  very  well.  They  are  getting  to  do 
all  our  work.  They  are  doctors,  and  barristers, 
and  artists.  They  manage  theaters,  and  promote 
swindles,  and  edit  newspapers.  I  am  looking  for- 
ward to  the  time  when  we  men  shall  have  noth- 
ing to  do  but  lie  in  bed  till  twelve,  read  two  nov- 
els a  day,  have  nice  little  five  o'clock  teas  all  to 
ourselves,  and  tax  our  brains  with  nothing  more 
trying  than  discussions  upon  the  latest  patterns 
in  trousers,  and  arguments  as  to  what  Mr.  Jones's 
coat  was  made  of  and  whether  it  fitted  him.  It 
is  a  glorious  prospect — for  idle  fellows. 


ON  BEING  IN  LOVE. 

"\/OU'VE  been  in  love,  of  course!  If  not 
'*'  you've  got  it  to  come.  Love  is  like  the 
measles ;  we  all  have  to  go  through  it.  Also  like 
the  measles,  we  take  it  only  once.  One  never 
need  be  afraid  of  catching  it  a  second  time.  The 
man  who  has  had  it  can  go  into  the  most  danger- 
ous places,  and  play  the  most  foolhardy  tricks 
with  perfect  safety.  He  can  picnic  in  shady 
woods,  ramble  through  leafy  aisles,  and  linger  on 
mossy  seats  to  watch  the  sunset.  He  fears  a 
quiet  country  house  no  more  than  he  would  his 
own  club.  He  can  join  a  family  party  to  go 
down  the  Rhine.  He  can,  to  see  the  last  of  a 
friend,  venture  into  the  very  jaws  of  the  marriage 
cermony  itself.  He  can  keep  his  head  through 
the  whirl  of  a  ravishing  waltz,  and  rest  afterward 
in  a  dark  conservatory,  catching  nothing  more 
lasting  than  a  cold.  He  can  brave  a  moonlight 
walk  adown  sweet-scented  lanes,  or  a  twilight  pull 
among  the  somber  rushes.     He  can  get  over  a 

13 


14  ON  BEING  IN  LOVE. 

stile  without  danger,  scramble  through  a  tangled 
hedge  without  being  caught,  come  down  a  slip- 
pery path  without  falling.  He  can  look  into 
sunny  eyes,  and  not  be  dazzled.  He  listens  to 
the  siren  voices,  yet  sails  on  with  unveered  helm. 
He  clasps  white  hands  in  his,  but  no  electric 
*'Lulu"-like  force  holds  him  bound  in  their  dainty 
pressure. 

No,  we  never  sicken  with  love  twice.  Cupid 
spends  no  second  arrow  on  the  same  heart. 
Love's  handmaids  are  our  life-long  friends.  Re- 
spect, and  Admiration,  and  Affection,  our  doors 
may  always  be  left  open  for,  but  their  great  celes- 
tial master,  in  his  royal  progress,  pays  but  one 
visit,  and  departs.  We  like,  we  cherish,  we  are 
very,  very  fond  of — but  we  never  love  again.  A 
man's  heart  is  a  firework  that  once  in  its  time 
flashes  heavenward.  Meteor-like,  it  blazes  for  a 
moment,  and  lights  with  its  glory  the  whole  world 
beneath.  Then  the  night  of  our  sordid  common- 
place life  closes  in  around  it,  and  the  burnt-out 
case,  falling  back  to  earth,  lies  useless  and  un- 
cared  for,  slowly  smouldering  into  ashes.  Once, 
breaking  loose  from  our  prison  bonds,  we  dare,  as 
mighty  old  Prometheus  dared,  to  scale  the  Olym- 


ON  BEING  IN  LOVE.  1 5 

()ian  mount,  and  snatch  from  Phoebus*  chariot  the 
fire  of  the  gods.  Happy  those  who,  hastening 
down  again  e'er  it  dies  out,  can  kindle  their 
earthly  altars  at  its  flame.  Love  is  too  pure  a 
light  to  burn  long  among  the  noisome  gases  that 
we  breathe,  but  before  it  is  choked  out  we  may 
use  it  as  a  torch  to  ignite  the  cosy  fire  of  affec- 
tion. 

And,  after  all,  that  warming  glow  is  more 
suited  to  our  cold  little  back-parlor  of  a  world 
than  is  the  burning  spirit,  love.  Love  should  be 
the  vestal  fire  of  some  mighty  temple — some  vast 
dim  fane  whose  organ  music  is  the  rolling  of  the 
spheres.  Affection  will  burn  cheerily  when  the 
white  flame  of  love  is  flickered  out.  Affection  is 
a  fire  that  can  be  fed  from  day  to  day,  and  be 
piled  up  ever  higher  as  the  wintry  years  draw 
nigh.  Old  men  and  women  can  sit  by  it  with 
their  thin  hands  clasped,  the  little  children  can 
nestle  down  in  front,  the  friend  and  neighbor  has 
his  welcome  corner  by  its  side,  and  even  shaggy 
Fido  and  sleek  Titty  can  toast  their  noses  at  the 
bars. 

Let  us  heap  the  coals  of  kindness  upon  that 
fire.     Throw  on  your  pleasant  words,  your  gentle 


1 6  ON  BEING  IN  LOVE. 

pressures  of  the  hand,  your  thoughtful  and  unsel- 
fish deeds.  Fan  it  with  good  humor,  patience, 
and  forbearance.  You  can  let  the  wind  blow  and 
the  rain  fall  unheeded  then,  for  your  hearth  will 
be  warm  and  bright,  and  the  faces  round  it  will 
make  sunshine  in  spite  of  the  clouds  without. 

I  am  afraid,  dear  Edwin  and  Angelina,  you 
expect  too  much  from  love.  You  think  there  is 
enough  of  your  little  hearts  to  feed  this  fierce, 
devouring  passion  for  all  your  long  lives.  Ah, 
young  folk!  don't  rely  too  much  upon  that  un- 
steady flicker.  It  will  dwindle  and  dwindle  as 
the  months  roll  on,  and  there  is  no  replenishing 
the  fuel.  You  will  watch  it  die  out  in  anger  and 
disappointment.  To  each  it  will  seem  that  it  is 
the  other  who  is  growing  colder.  Edwin  sees 
with  bitterness  that  Angelina  no  longer  runs  to 
the  gate  to  meet  him,  all  smiles  and  blushes; 
and  when  he  has  a  cough  now,  she  doesn't  begin 
to  cry,  and,  putting  her  arms  round  his  neck,  say 
that  she  cannot  live  without  him.  The  most  she 
will  probably  do  is  to  suggest  a  lozenge,  and  even 
that  in  a  tone  implying  that  it  is  the  noise  more 
than  anything  else  she  is  anxious  to  get  rid  of. 

Poor  little  Angelina,  too,  sheds  silent  tears,  for 


ON  BEING  IN  LOVE.  17 

Edwin  has  given  up  carrying  her  old  handkerchief 
in  the  inside  pocket  of  his  waistcoat. 

Both  are  astonished  at  the  falling  of!  in  the 
other  one,  but  neither  sees  their  own  change.  If 
they  did,  they  would  not  suffer  as  they  do. 
They  would  look  for  the  cause  in  the  right  quar- 
ter— in  the  littleness  of  poor  human  nature — join 
hands  over  their  common  failing,  and  start  build- 
ing their  house  anew  on  a  more  earthly  and 
enduring  foundation.  But  we  are  so  blind  to  our 
own  shortcomings,  so  wide  awake  to  those  of  oth- 
ers. Everything  that  happens  to  us  is  always  the 
other  person's  fault.  Angelina  would  have  gone 
on  loving  Edwin  forever  and  ever  and  ever,  if 
only  Edwin  had  not  grown  so  strange  and  differ- 
ent. Edwin  would  have  adored  Angelina  through 
eternity,  if  Angelina  had  only  remained  the  same 
as  when  he  first  adored  her. 

It  is  a  cheerless  hour  for  you  both,  when  the 
lamp  of  love  has  gone  out,  and  the  fire  of  affec- 
tion is  not  yet  lit,  and  you  have  to  grope  about 
in  the  cold  raw  dawn  of  life  to  kindle  it.  God 
grant  it  catches  light  before  the  day  is  too  far 
spent.  Many  sit  shivering  by  the  dead  coals  till 
night  come. 


l8  ON  BEING  IN  LOVE. 

But,  there,  of  what  use  is  it  to  preach?  Who 
that  feels  the  rush  of  young  love  through  his 
veins  can  think  it  will  ever  flow  feeble  and  slow  I 
To  the  boy  of  twenty,  it  seems  impossible  that 
he  will  not  love  as  wildly  at  sixty  as  he  does  then. 
He  cannot  call  to  mind  any  middle-aged  or 
elderly  gentleman  of  his  acquaintance  who  is 
known  to  exhibit  symptoms  of  frantic  attach- 
ment, but  that  does  not  interfere  in  his  belief  in 
himself.  His  love  will  never  fail,  whoever  else's 
may.  Nobody  ever  loved  as  he  loves,  and  so,  of 
course,  the  rest  of  the  world's  experience  can  be 
no  guide  in  his  case.  Alas,  alas!  e'er  thirty,  he 
has  joined  the  ranks  of  the  sneerers.  It  is  not 
his  fault.  Our  passions,  both  the  good  and  bad, 
cease  with  our  blushes.  We  do  not  hate,  nor 
grieve,  nor  joy,  nor  despair  in  our  thirties  like  we 
did  in  our  teens.  Disappointment  does  not  sug- 
gest suicide,  and  we  quaff  success  without  intoxi- 
cation. 

We  take  all  things  in  a  minor  key  as  we  grow 
older.  There  are  few  majestic  passages  in  the 
later  acts  of  life's  opera.  Ambition  takes  a  less 
ambitious  aim.  Honor  becomes  more  reasonable 
and  conveniently  adapts  itself  to  circumstances. 


ON  BEING  IN  LOVE.  19 

And  love  —  love  dies.  "  Irreverence  for  the 
dreams  of  youth"  soon  creeps  like  a  killing  frost 
upon  our  hearts.  The  tender  shoots  and  the  ex- 
panding flowers  are  nipped  and  withered,  and,  of 
a  vine  that  yearned  to  stretch  its  tendrils  round 
the  world,  there  is  left  but  a  sapless  stump. 

My  fair  friends  will  deem  all  this  rank  heresy, 
I  know.  So  far  from  a  man's  not  loving  after  he 
has  passed  boyhood,  it  is  not  till  there  is  a  good 
deal  of  gray  in  his  hair  that  they  think  his  pro- 
testations at  all  worthy  of  attention.  Young 
ladies  take  their  notions  of  our  sex  from  the  nov- 
els written  by  their  own  and,  compared  with  the 
monstrosities  that  masquerade  for  men  in  the 
pages  of  that  nightmare  literature,  Pythagoras's 
plucked  bird  and  Frankenstein's  demon  were  fair 
average  specimens  of  humanity. 

In  these  so-called  books,  the  chief  lover,  or 
Greek  god,  as  he  is  admiringly  referred  to — by 
the  way,  they  do  not  say  which  "Greek  god"  it  is 
that  the  gentleman  bears  such  a  striking  likeness 
to,  it  might  be  hump-backed  Vulcan,  or  double- 
faced  Janus,  or  even  driveling  Silenus,  the  god  of 
abstruse  mysteries.  He  resembles  the  whole 
family  of  them,  however,  in  being  a  blackguard. 


20  ON  BEING  IN  LOVE. 

and  perhaps  this  is  what  is  meant.  To  even  the 
little  manliness  his  classical  prototypes  possessed, 
though,  he  can  lay  no  claim  whatever,  being  a 
listless  effeminate  noodle,  on  the  shady  side  of 
forty.  But  oh !  the  depth  and  strength  of  this 
elderly  party's  emotion  for  some  bread  and  butter 
school-girl !  Hide  your  heads,  ye  young  Romeos 
and  Leanders,  this  blas^  old  beau  loves  with  an 
hysterical  fervor  that  requires  four  adjectives  to 
every  noun  to  properly  describe. 

It  is  well,  dear  ladies,  for  us  old  sinners,  that 
you  study  only  books.  Did  you  read  mankind, 
you  would  know  that  the  lad's  shy  stammering 
tells  a  truer  tale  than  our  bold  eloquence.  A 
boy's  love  comes  from  a  full  heart;  a  man's  is 
more  often  the  result  of  a  full  stomach.  Indeed, 
a  man's  sluggish  current  may  not  be  called  love, 
compared  with  the  rushing  fountain  that  wells  up, 
when  a  boy's  heart  is  struck  with  the  heavenly 
rod.  If  you  would  taste  love,  drink  of  the  pure 
stream  that  youth  pours  out  at  your  f^et.  Do 
not  wait  till  it  has  become  a  muddy  river  before 
you  stoop  to  catch  its  waves. 

Or  is  it  that  you  like  its  bitter  flavor;  that  the 
clear,  limpid  water  is  insipid  to  your  palate  and 


ON  BEING  IN  LOVE.  21 

that  the  pollution  of  its  after-course  gives  it  a  rel- 
ish to  your  lips?  Must  we  believe  those  who  tell 
us  that  a  hand  foul  with  the  filth  of  a  shameful 
life  is  the  only  one  a  young  girl  cares  to  be 
caressed  by? 

That  is  the  teaching  that  is  bawled  out  day  by 
day  from  between  those  yellow  covers.  Do  they 
ever  pause  to  think,  I  wonder,  those  Devil's 
Lady-Helps,  what  mischief  they  are  doing  crawl- 
ing about  God's  garden,  and  telling  childish 
Eves  and  silly  Adams  that  sin  is  sweet,  and  that 
decency  is  ridiculous  and  vulgar?  How  many  an 
innocent  girl  do  they  not  degrade  into  an  evil- 
minded  woman?  To  how  many  a  weak  lad  do 
they  not  point  out  the  dirty  by-path  as  the  short- 
est cut  to  a  maiden's  heart?  It  is  not  as  if  they 
wrote  of  life  as  it  really  is.  Speak  truth,  and 
^"^right  will  take  care  of  itself.  But  their  pictures 
are  coarse  daubs  painted  from  the  sickly  fancies 
of  their  own  diseased  imagination. 

We  want  to  think  of  women  not — as  their  own 
sex  would  show  them — as  Lorleis  luring  us  to 
destruction,  but  as  good  angels  beckoning  us  up- 
ward. They  have  more  power  for  good  or  evil 
than  they  dream  '^f.     It  is  just  at  the  very  age 


22  ON  BEING  IN  LOVE. 

when  a  man's  character  is  forming  that  he  tum- 
bles into  love,  and  then  the  lass  he  loves  has  the 
making  or  marring  of  him.  Unconsciously  he 
molds  himself  to  what  she  would  have  him,  good 
or  bad.  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  be  ungallant 
enough  to  say  that  I  do  not  think  they  always 
use  their  influence  for  the  best.  Too  often  the 
female  world  is  bounded  hard  and  fast  within  the 
limits  of  the  commonplace.  Their  ideal  hero  is  a 
prince  of  littleness,  and  to  become  that  many  a 
powerful  mind,  enchanted  by  love,  is  "lost  to  life 
and  use,  and  name  and  fame." 

And  yet,  women,  you  could  make  us  so  much 
better,  if  you  only  would.  It  rests  with  you, 
more  than  with  all  the  preachers,  to  roll  this 
world  a  little  nearer  Heaven.  Chivalry  is  not 
dead :  it  only  sleeps  for  want  of  work  to  do.  It 
is  you  who  must  wake  it  to  noble  deeds.  You 
must  be  worthy  of  knightly  worship.  • 

You  must  be  higher  than  ourselves.  It  was  for 
Una  that  the  Red  Cross  Knight  did  war.  For 
no  painted,  mincing,  court  dame  could  the  dragon 
have  been  slain.  Oh,  ladies  fair,  be  fair  in  mind 
and  soul  as  well  as  face,  so  that  brave  knights 
may  win   glory   in   your   service!     Oh,  Woman, 


ON  BEING  IN  LOVE.  23 

throw  off  your  disguising  cloaks  of  selfishness, 
effrontery,  and  affectation!  Stand  forth  once 
more  a  queen  in  your  royal  robe  of  simple  purity. 
A  thousand  swords,  now  rusting  in  ignoble  sloth, 
shall  leap  from  their  scabbards  to  do  battle  for 
your  honor  against  wrong.  A  thousand  Sir 
Rolands  shall  lay  lance  in  rest,  and  Fear,  Avarice, 
Pleasure,  and  Ambition  shall  go  down  in  the  dust 
before  your  colors. 

What  noble  deeds  were  we  not  ripe  for  in  the 
days  when  we  loved?  What  noble  lives  could  we 
not  have  lived  for  her  sake?  Our  love  was  a 
religion  we  could  have  died  for.  It  was  no  mere 
human  creature  like  ourselves  that  we  adored. 
It  was  a  queen  that  we  paid  homage  to,  a  god- 
dess that  we  worshiped. 

And  how  madly  we  did  worship!  And  how 
sweet  it  was  to  worship !  Ah,  lad,  cherish  love's 
young  dream  while  it  lasts !  You  will  know,  too 
soon,  how  truly  little  Tom  Moore  sang,  when  he 
said  that  there  was  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life. 
Even  when  it  brings  misery,  it  is  a  wild,  romantic 
misery,  all  unlike  the  dull,  worldly  pain  of  after 
sorrows.  When  you  have  lost  her — when  the 
light  is  gone  out   from  your  life,  and  the  world 


24  ON  BEING  IN  LOVE, 

stretches  before  you  a  long,  dark  horror,  even 
then  a  half  enchantment  mingles  with  your 
despair. 

And  who  would  not  risk  its  terrors  to  gain  its 
raptures?  Ah,  what  raptures  they  were!  The 
mere  recollection  thrills  you.  How  delicious  it 
was  to  tell  her  that  you  loved  her,  that  you  lived 
for  her,  that  you  would  die  for  her!  How  you 
did  rave  to  be  sure,  what  floods  of  extravagant 
nonsense  you  poured  forth,  and  oh,  how  cruel  it 
was  of  her  to  pretend  not  to  believe  you !  In 
what  awe  you  stood  of  her!  How  miserable  you 
were  when  you  had  offended  her!  And  yet,  how 
pleasant  to  be  bullied  by  her,  and  to  sue  for  par- 
don without  having  the  slightest  notion  of  what 
your  fault  was!  How  dark  the  world  was  when 
she  snubbed  you,  as  she  often  did,  the  little 
rogue,  just  to  see  you  look  wretched ;  how  sunny 
when  she  smiled!  How  jealous  you  were  of 
every  one  about  her!  How  you  hated  every  man 
she  shook  hands  with,  every  woman  she  kissed — 
the  maid  that  did  her  hair,  the  boy  that  cleaned 
her  shoes,  the  dog  she  nursed — though  you  had 
to  be  respectful  to  the  last-named!  How  you 
looked    fonvard  to   seeing  her,  how  stupid   you 


ON  BEING  IN  LOVE,  25 

were  when  you  did  see  her,  staring  at  her  without 
saying  a  word !  How  impossible  it  was  for  you 
to  go  out  at  any  time  of  the  day  or  night  without 
finding  yourself  eventually  opposite  her  windows! 
You  hadn't  pluck  enough  to  go  in,  but  you  hung 
about  the  corner  and  gazed  at  the  outside.  Oh, 
if  the  house  had  only  caught  fire — it  was  insured, 
so  it  wouldn't  have  mattered — and  you  could 
have  rushed  in  and  saved  her  at  the  risk  of  your 
life,  and  have  been  terribly  burnt  and  injured! 
Anything  to  serve  her.  Even  in  little  things 
that  was  so  sweet.  How  you  would  watch  her, 
spaniel-like,  to  anticipate  her  slightest  wish! 
How  proud  you  were  to  do  her  bidding!  How 
delightful  it  was  to  be  ordered  about  by  her! 
To  devote  your  whole  life  to  her,  and  to  never 
think  of  yourself,  seemed  such  a  simple  thing. 
^  You  would  go  without  a  holiday  to  lay  a  humble 
offering  at  her  shrine,  and  felt  more  than  repaid 
if  she  only  deigned  to  accept  it.  How  precious 
to  you  was  everything  that  she  had  hallowed  by 
her  touch — her  little  glove,  the  ribbon  she  had 
worn,  the  rose  that  had  nestled  in  her  hair,  and 
whose  withered  leaves  still  mark  the  poems  you 
never  care  to  look  at  now. 


26  ON  BEING  IN  LOVE. 

And  oh,  how  beautiful  she  was,  how  wondrous 
beautiful !  It  was  as  some  angel  entering  the 
room,  and  all  else  became  plain  and  earthly.  She 
was  too  sacred  to  be  touched.  It  seemed  almost 
presumption  to  gaze  at  her.  You  would  as  soon 
have  thought  of  kissing  her  as  of  singing  comic 
songs  in  a  cathedral.  It  was  desecration  enough 
to  kneel,  and  timidly  raise  the  gracious  little 
hand  to  your  lips. 

Ah,  those  foolish  days,  those  foolish  days, 
when  we  were  unselfish,  and  pure-minded ;  those 
foolish  days,  when  our  simple  hearts  were  full  of 
truth,  and  faith,  and  reverence !  Ah,  those  fool- 
ish days  of  noble  longings  and  of  noble  strivings! 
And  oh,  these  wise  clever  days,  when  we  know 
that  money  is  the  only  prize  worth  striving  for, 
when  we  believe  in  nothing  else  but  meanness 
and  lies,  when  we  care  for  no  living  creature  but 
ourselves ! 


ON  BEING  IN  THE  BLUES, 

T  CAN  enjoy  feeling  melancholy,  and  there  is 
•^  a  good  deal  of  satisfaction  about  being  thor- 
oughly miserable  ;  but  nobody  likes  a  fit  of  the 
blues.  Nevertheless,  everybody  has  them ;  not- 
withstanding which,  nobody  can  tell  why.  There 
is  no  accounting  for  them.  You  are  just  as  likely 
to  have  one  on  the  day  after  you  have  come  into 
a  large  fortune,  as  on  the  day  after  you  have  left 
your  new  silk  umbrella  in  the  train.  Its  effect 
upon  you  is  somewhat  similar  to  what  would 
probably  be  produced  by  a  combined  attack  of 
toothache,  indigestion,  and  cold  in  the  head. 
You  become  stupid,  restless,  and  irritable;  rude 
to  strangers,  and  dangerous  toward  your  friends ; 
clumsy,  maudlin,  and  quarrelsome ;  a  nuisance  to 
yourself,  and  everybody  about  you. 

While  it  is  on,  you  can  do  nothing  and  think 
of  nothing,  though  feeling  at  the  time  bound 
to  do  something.  You  can't  sit  still,  so  put  on 
your  hat  and  go  for  a  walk  ,  but  before  you  get 

27 


28  ON  BEING  IN   THE  BLUES. 

to  the  corner  of  the  street  you  wish  you  hadn't 
come  out,  and  you  turn  back.  You  open  a  book 
and  try  to  read,  but  you  find  Shakespeare  trite 
and  commonplace,  Dickens  is  dull  and  prosy, 
Thackeray  a  bore,  and  Carlyle  too  sentimental. 
You  throw  the  book  aside,  and  call  the  author 
names.  Then  you  "  shoo "  the  cat  out  of  the 
room,  and  kick  the  door  to  after  her.  You  think 
you  will  write  your  letters,  but  after  sticking  at 
'-^Dearest  Auntie, — I  find  I  have  five  minutes  to 
spare,  and  so  hasten  to  write  to  you,''  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  without  being  able  to  think  of  an- 
other sentence,  you  tumble  the  paper  into  the 
desk,  fling  the  wet  pen  down  upon  the  table- 
cloth, and  start  up  with  the  resolution  of  going 
to  see  the  Thompsons.  While  pulling  on  your 
gloves,  however,  it  occurs  to  you  that  the 
Thompsons  are  idiots ;  that  they  never  have 
supper ;  and  that  you  will  be  expected  to  jump 
the  baby.  You  curse  the  Thompsons,  and  de- 
cide not  to  go. 

By  this  time  you  feel  completely  crushed. 
You  bury  your  face  in  your  hands,  and  think  you 
would  like  to  die  and  go  to  heaven.  You  picture 
to   yourself   your   own    sick-bed,    with    all    your 


ON  BEING  IN  THE  BLUES.  29 

friends  and  relations  standing  round  you  weep- 
ing. You  bless  them  all,  especially  the  young 
and  pretty  ones.  They  will  value  you  when  you 
are  gone,  so  you  say  to  yourself,  and  learn  too 
late  what  they  have  lost ;  and  you  bitterly  con- 
trast their  presumed  regard  for  you  then  with 
their  decided  want  of  veneration  now. 

These  reflections  make  you  feel  a  little  more 
cheerful,  but  only  for  a  brief  period;  for  the  next 
moment  you  think  what  a  fool  you  must  be  to 
imagine  for  an  instant  that  anybody  would  be 
sorry  at  anything  that  might  happen  to  you. 
Who  would  care  two  straws  (whatever  precise 
amount  of  care  two  straws  may  represent)  whether 
you  were  blown  up,  or  hung  up,  or  married,  or 
drowned.  Nobody  cares  for  you.  You  never 
have  been  properly  appreciated,  never  met  with 
your  due  deserts  in  any  one  particular.  You 
review  the  whole  of  your  past  life,  and  it  is  pain- 
fully apparent  that  you  have  been  ill-used  from 
your  cradle. 

Half  an  hour's  indulgence  In  these  considera- 
tions works  you  up  into  a  state  of  savage  fury 
against  everybody  and  everything,  especially  your- 
self, whom  anatomical  reasons  alone  prevent  your 


so  ON  BEING  IN   THE  BLUES. 

kicking.  Bed-time  at  last  comes,  to  save  you 
from  doing  something  rash,  and  you  spring  up- 
stairs, throw  off  your  clothes,  leaving  them  strewn 
all  over  the  room,  blow  out  the  candle,  and  jump 
into  bed  as  if  you  had  backed  yourself  for  a  heavy 
wager  to  do  the  whole  thing  against  time.  There, 
you  toss  and  tumble  about  for  a  couple  of  hours 
or  so,  varying  the  monotony  by  occasionally  jerk- 
ing the  clothes  off,  and  getting  out  and  putting 
them  on  again.  At  length  you  drop  into  an  un- 
easy and  fitful  slumber,  have  bad  dreams,  and 
wake  up  late  the  next  morning. 

At  least,  this  is  all  we  poor  single  men  can  do 
under  the  circumstances.  Married  men  bully 
their  wives,  grumble  at  the  dinner,  and  insist  on 
the  children's  going  to  bed.  All  of  which,  creat- 
ing, as  it  does,  a  good  deal  of  disturbance  in  the 
house,  must  be  a  great  relief  to  the  feelings  of  a 
man  in  the  blues,  rows  being  the  only  form 
of  amusement  in  which  he  can  take  any  in- 
terest. 

The  symptoms  of  the  infirmity  are  much  the 
same  in  every  case,  but  the  affliction  itself  is  vari- 
ously termed.  The  poet  says  that  "a  feeling  of 
sadness   comes   o'er   him."      'Arry  refers   to  the 


C.V  BEING  IN   THE   BLUES.  3i 

heavings  of  his  wayward  heart  by  confiding  to 
Jimee  that  he  has  "got  the  blooming  hump." 
Your  sister  doesn't  know  what  is  the  matter  with 
her  to-night.  She  feels  out  of  sorts  altogether, 
and  hopes  nothing  is  going  to  happen.  The 
everyday-young-man  is  "so  awfully  glad  to  meet 
}ou,  old  fellow,"  for  he  does  "feel  so  jolly  misera- 
ble, this  evening."  As  for  myself,  I  generally  say 
that  "I  have  a  strange,  unsettled  feeling  to-night," 
and  "think  I'll  go  out." 

By  the  way,  it  never  does  come  except  in  the 
evening.  In  the  sun-time,  when  the  world  is 
bounding  forward  full  of  life,  we  cannot  stay  to 
sigh  and  sulk.  The  roar  of  the  working  day 
drowns  the  voices  of  the  elfin  sprites  that  are  ever 
singing  their  low-toned  miserere  in  our  ears.  In 
the  day  we  are  angry,  disappointed,  or  indignant, 
but  never  "in  the  blues,"  and  never  melancholy. 
When  things  go  wrong  at  lo  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, we — or  rather  you — swear  and  knock  the  fur- 
niture about ;  but  if  the  misfortune  comes  at 
lo  P.M.,  we  read  poetry,  or  sit  in  the  dark,  and 
think  what  a  hollow  world  this  is. 

But,  as  a  rule,  it  is  not  trouble  that  makes  us 
melancholy.     The  actuality  is  too  stern  a  thing 


32  ON  BEING  IN    THE  BLUES. 

for  sentiment.  We  linger  to  weep  over  a  picture, 
but  from  the  original  we  should  quickly  turn  our 
eyes  away.  There  is  no  pathos  in  real  misery : 
no  luxury  in  real  grief.  We  do  not  toy  with  sharp 
swords,  nor  hug  a  gnawing  fox  to  our  breasts  for 
choice.  When  a  man  or  woman  loves  to  brood 
over  a  sorrow,  and  takes  care  to  keep  it  green  in 
their  memory,  you  may  be  sure  it  is  no  longer  a 
pain  to  them.  However  they  may  have  suffered 
from  it  at  first,  the  recollection  has  become  by 
then  a  pleasure.  Many  dear  old  ladies,  who  daily 
look  at  tiny  shoes,  lying  in  lavender-scented  draw- 
ers, and  weep  as  they  think  of  the  tiny  feet  whose 
toddling  march  is  done;  and  sweet-faced  young 
ones,  who  place  each  night  beneath  their  pillow 
some  lock  that  once  curled  on  a  boyish  head  that 
the  salt  waves  have  kissed  to  death,  will  call  me  a 
nasty  cynical  brute,  and  say  I'm  talking  non- 
sense ;  but  I  believe,  nevertheless,  that  if  they  will 
ask  themselves  truthfully  whether  they  find  it  un- 
pleasant to  dwell  thus  on  their  sorrow,  they  will  be 
compelled  to  answer  "No."  Tears  are  as  sweet 
as  laughter  to  some  natures.  The  proverbial  Eng- 
lishman, we  know  from  old  chronicler  Froissart, 
takes  his  pleasures  sadly,  and  the  Englishwoman 


ON  BEING  IN   THE  BLUES.  33 

goes  a  step  further,  and  takes  her  pleasures  in  sad- 
ness itself. 

I  am  not  sneering.  I  would  not  for  a  moment 
sneer  at  anything  that  helps  to  keep  hearts  ten- 
der in  this  hard  old  world.  We  men  are  cold  and 
common-sensed  enough  for  all;  we  would  not 
have  women  the  same.  No,  no,  ladies  dear,  be 
always  sentimental  and  soft-hearted,  as  you  are — • 
be  the  soothing  butter  to  our  coarse  dry  bread. 
Besides,  sentiment  is  to  women  what  fun  is  to  us. 
They  do  not  care  for  our  humor,  surely  it  would 
be  unfair  to  deny  them  their  grief.  And  who 
shall  say  that  their  mode  of  enjoyment  is  not  as 
sensible  as  ours?  Why  assume  that  a  doubled-up 
body,  a  contorted,  purple  face,  and  a  gaping 
mouth,  emitting  a  series  of  ear-splitting  shrieks, 
point  to  a  state  of  more  intelligent  happiness  than 
a  pensive  face,  reposing  upon  a  little  white  hand, 
and  a  pair  of  gentle  tear-dimmed  eyes,  looking 
back  through  Time's  dark  avenue  upon  a  fading 
past? 

I  am  glad  when  I  see  Regret  walked  with  as  a 
friend — glad  because  I  know  the  saltness  has  been 
washed  from  out  the  tears,  and  that  the  sting 
must  have  been  plucked  from  the  beautiful  face 


34  ON  BEING  IN  THE  BLUES. 

of  Sorrow  e'er  we  dare  press  her  pale  lips  to  ours. 
Time  has  laid  his  healing  hand  upon  the  wound, 
when  we  can  look  back  upon  the  pain  we  once 
fainted  under,  and  no  bitterness  or  despair  rises 
in  our  hearts.  The  burden  is  no  longer  heavy, 
when  we  have  for  our  past  troubles  only  the  same 
sweet  mingling  of  pleasure  and  pity  that  we  feel 
when  old  knight-hearted  Colonel  Newcome  an- 
swers "adsum"  to  the  great  roll-call,  or  when  Tom 
and  Maggie  Tulliver,  clasping  hands  through  the 
mists  that  have  divided  them,  go  down,  locked  in 
each  other's  arms,  beneath  the  swollen  waters  of 
the  Floss. 

Talking  of  poor  Tom  and  Maggie  Tulliver 
brings  to  my  mind  a  saying  of  George  Eliot's  in 
connection  with  this  subject  of  melancholy.  She 
speaks  somewhere  of  the  "sadness  of  a  summer's 
evening."  How  wonderfully  true — like  every- 
thing that  came  from  that  wonderful  pen — the 
observation  is!  Who  has  not  felt  the  sorrowful 
enchantment  of  those  lingering  sunsets?  The 
world  belongs  to  Melancholy,  then  a  thoughtful 
deep-eyed  maiden  who  loves  not  the  glare  of  day. 
It  is  not  till  "light  thickens,  and  the  crow  wings 
to  the  rocky  wood,"  that  she  steals  forth  from  her 


ON  BEING  IN  THE  BLUES.  35 

groves.  Her  palace  is  in  twilight  land.  It  is 
there  she  meets  us.  At  her  shadowy  gate  she 
takes  our  hand  in  hers,  and  walks  besides  us 
through  her  mystic  realm.  We  see  no  form,  but 
seem  to  hear  the  rustling  of  her  wings. 

Even  in  the  toiling  hum-drum  city,  her  spirit 
comes  to  us.  There  is  a  somber  presence  in  each 
long,  dull  street ;  and  the  dark  river  creeps  ghost- 
like, under  the  black  arches,  as  if  bearing  some 
hidden  secret  beneath  its  muddy  waves. 

In  the  silent  country,  when  the  trees  and  hedges 
loom  dim  and  blurred  against  the  rising  night,  and 
the  bat's  wing  flutters  in  our  face,  and  the  land- 
rail's cry  sounds  drearily  across  the  fields,  the  spell 
sinks  deeper  still  into  our  hearts.  We  seem  in 
that  hour  to  be  standing  by  some  unseen  death- 
bed, and  in  the  swaying  of  the  elms  we  hear  the 
sigh  of  the  dying  day. 

A  solemn  sadness  reigns.  A  great  peace  is 
around  us.  In  its  light,  our  cares  of  the  working 
day  grow  small  and  trivial,  and  bread  and  cheese — 
aye,  and  even  kisses — do  not  seem  the  only  things 
worth  striving  for.  Thoughts  we  cannot  speak 
but  only  listen  to  flood  in  upon  us,  and,  standing 
in  the  stillness  under  earth's  dark'ning  dome,  we 


36  ON  BEING  IN   THE  BLUES. 

feel  that  we  are  greater  than  our  petty  lives. 
Hung  round  with  those  dusky  curtains,  the  world 
is  no  longer  a  mere  dingy  workshop,  but  a  stately 
temple  wherein  man  may  worship,  and  where,  at 
times,  in  the  dimness,  his  groping  hands  touch 
God's. 


ON  BEING  HARD  UP. 

T  T  is  a  most  remarkable  thing.  I  sat  down 
-^  with  the  full  intention  of  writing  something 
clever  and  original ;  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  can't 
think  of  anything  clever  and  original — at  least, 
not  at  this  moment.  The  only  thing  I  can  think 
about  now  is  being  hard  up.  I  suppose  having 
my  hands  in  my  pockets  has  made  me  think 
about  this.  I  always  do  sit  with  my  hands  in 
my  pockets,  except  when  I  am  in  the  company 
of  my  sisters,  my  cousins,  or  my  aunts ;  and  they 
kick  up  such  a  shindy — I  should  say  expostulate 
so  eloquently  upon  the  subject — that  I  have  to 
give  in  and  take  them  out — my  hands  I  mean. 
The  chorus  to  their  objections  is  that  it  is  not 
gentlemanly.  I  am  hanged  if  I  can  see  why.  I 
could  understand  its  not  being  considered  gentle- 
manly to  put  your  hands  in  other  people's 
pockets  (especially  by  the  other  people),  but  how, 
O  ye  sticklers  for  what  looks  this  and  what  looks 
that,  can  putting  his  hands  in  his  own  pockets 

37 


38  ON  BEING  HARD    UP. 

make  a  man  less  gentle  !  Perhaps  you  are  right, 
though.  Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  have  heard 
some  people  grumble  most  savagely  when  doing 
it.  But  they  were  mostly  old  gentlemen.  We 
young  fellows,  as  a  rule,  are  never  quite  at  ease 
unless  we  have  our  hands  in  our  pockets.  We 
are  awkward  and  shifty.  We  are  like  what  a 
music-hall  Lion  Comique  would  be  without  his 
opera  hat,  if  such  a  thing  can  be  imagined.  But 
let  us  put  our  hands  in  our  trousers'  pockets,  and 
let  there  be  some  small  change  in  the  right  hand 
one  and  a  bunch  of  keys  in  the  left,  and  we  will 
face  a  female  post-office  clerk. 

It  is  a  little  difficult  to  know  what  to  do  with 
your  hands,  even  in  your  pockets,  when  there  is 
nothing  else  there.  Years  ago,  when  my  whole 
capital  would  occasionally  come  down  to  ''what 
in  town  the  people  call  a  bob,"  I  would  reck- 
lessly spend  a  penny  of  it,  merely  for  the  sake  of 
having  the  change,  all  in  coppers,  to  jingle.  You 
don't  feel  nearly  so  hard  up  with  elevenpence  in 
your  pocket  as  you  do  with  a  shilling.  Had  I 
been  "  La-di-da,"  that  impecunious  youth  about 
whom  we  superior  folk  are  so  sarcastic,  I  would 
have  changed  my  penny  for  two  ha'pennies. 


ON  BEING  HARD    UP.  39 

I  can  speak  with  authority  on  the  subject  of 
being  hard  up.  I  have  been  a  provincial  actor. 
If  further  evidence  be  required,  which  I  do  not 
think  likely,  I  can  add  that  I  have  been  a  "  gen- 
tleman connected  with  the  press."  I  have  lived 
on  fifteen  shillings  a  week.  I  have  lived  a  week 
on  ten,  owing  the  other  five ;  and  I  have  lived 
for  a  fortnight  on  a  greatcoat. 

It  is  wonderful  what  an  insight  into  domestic 
economy  being  really  hard  up  gives  one.  If  you 
want  to  find  out  the  value  of  money,  live  on 
fifteen  shillings  a  week,  and  see  how  much  you 
can  put  by  for  clothes  and  recreation.  You  will 
find  out  that  it  is  worth  while  to  wait  for  the 
farthing  change,  that  it  is  worth  while  to  walk  a 
mile  to  save  a  penny,  that  a  glass  of  beer  is  a 
luxury  to  be  indulged  in  only  at  rare  intervals, 
and  that  a  collar  can  be  worn  for  four  days. 

Try  it  just  before  you  get  married.  It  will  be 
excellent  practice.  Let  your  son  and  heir  try  it 
before  sending  him  to  college.  He  wont  grum- 
ble at  a  hundred  a  year  pocket-money  then. 
There  are  some  people  to  whom  it  would  do  a 
world  of  good.  There  is  that  delicate  blossom, 
who  can't  drink  any  claret  under  ninety-four,  and 


40  ON  BEING  HARD   UP. 

who  would  as  soon  think  of  dining  off  cats*  meat 
as  off  plain  roast  mutton.  You  do  come  across 
these  poor  wretches  now  and  then,  though,  to 
the  credit  of  humanity,  they  are  principally  con- 
fined to  that  fearful  and  wonderful  society  known 
only  to  lady  novelists.  I  never  hear  of  one  of 
these  creatures  discussing  a  menu  card,  but  I  feel 
a  mad  desire  to  drag  him  off  to  the  bar  of  some 
common  east-end  public-house,  and  cram  a  six- 
penny dinner  down  his  throat — beefsteak  pud- 
ding, fourpence ;  potatoes,  a  penny ;  half  a  pint 
of  porter,  a  penny.  The  recollection  of  it  (and 
the  mingled  fragrance  of  beer,  tobacco,  and  roast 
pork  generally  leaves  a  vivid  impression)  might 
induce  him  to  turn  up  his  nose  a  little  less  fre- 
quently in  the  future  at  everything  that  is  put 
before  him.  Then,  there  is  that  generous  party, 
the  cadger's  delight,  who  is  so  free  with  his  small 
change,  but  who  never  thinks  of  paying  his  debts. 
It  might  teach  even  him  a  little  common  sense. 
'•'  I  always  give  the  waiter  a  shilling.  One  can't 
give  the  fellow  less,  you  know,"  explained  a 
young  Government  clerk  with  whom  I  was  lunch- 
ing the  other  day  in  Regent  Street.  I  agreed 
with  him  as  to  the  utter  impossibility  of  making 


ON  BEING  HARD    UP.  4« 

it  elevenpence  ha'penny ;  but,  at  the  same  time» 
I  resolved  to  one  day  decoy  him  to  an  eating- 
house  I  remembered  near  Covent  Garden,  where 
the  waiter,  for  the  better  discharge  of  his  duties, 
goes  about  in  his  shirt  sleeves — and  very  dirty 
sleeves  they  are  too,  when  it  gets  near  the  end  of 
the  month.  I  know  that  waiter.  If  my  friend 
gives  him  anything  beyond  a  penny,  the  man  will 
insist  on  shaking  hands  with  him  then  and  there, 
as  a  mark  of  his  esteem  ;  of  that  I  feel  sure. 

There  have  been  a  good  many  funny  things 
said  and  written  about  hardupishness,  but  the 
reality  is  not  funny,  for  all  that.  It  is  not  funny 
to  have  to  haggle  over  pennies.  It  isn't  funny  to 
be  thought  mean  and  stingy.  It  isn't  funny  to  be 
shabby,  and  to  be  ashamed  of  your  address.  No, 
there  is  nothing  at  all  funny  in  poverty — to  the 
poor.  It  is  hell  upon  earth  to  a  sensitive  man ; 
and  many  a  brave  gentleman,  who  would  have 
faced  the  labors  of  Hercules,  has  had  his  heart 
broken  by  its  petty  miseries. 

It  is  not  the  actual  discomforts  themselves  that 
are  hard  to  bear.  Who  would  mind  roughing  it 
a  bit,  if  that  were  all  it  meant?  What  cared 
Robinson  Crusoe  for  a  patch  on  his  trousers?-— 


42  ON  BEING  HARD    UP. 

Did  he  wear  trousers?  I  forget;  or  did  he  go 
about  as  he  does  in  the  pantomimes?  What  did 
it  matter  to  him  if  his  toes  did  stick  out  of  his 
boots?  and  what  if  his  umbrella  was  a  cotton  one, 
so  long  as  it  kept  the  rain  off.  His  shabbiness 
did  not  trouble  him  :  there  were  none  of  his  friends 
round  about  to  sneer  at  him. 

Being  poor  is  a  mere  trifle.  It  is  being  known 
to  be  poor  that  is  the  sting.  It  is  not  cold  that 
makes  a  man  without  a  greatcoat  hurry  along  so 
quickly.  It  is  not  all  shame  at  telling  lies — which 
he  knows  will  not  be  believed — that  makes  him 
turn  so  red  when  he  informs  you  that  he  con- 
siders greatcoats  unhealthy,  and  never  carries  an 
umbrella  on  principle.  It  is  easy  enough  to  say 
that  poverty  is  no  crime.  No;  if  it  were  men 
would'nt  be  ashamed  of  it.  It's  a  blunder  though, 
and  is  punished  as  such.  A  poor  man  is  despised 
the  whole  world  over;  despised  as  much  by  a 
Christian  as  by  a  lord,  as  much  by  a  demagogue 
as  by  a  footman,  and  not  all  the  copy-book 
maxims  ever  set  for  ink-stained  youth  will  make 
him  respected.  Appearances  are  everything,  so 
far  as  human  opinion  goes,  and  the  man  who  will 
walk  down  Piccadilly  arm  in  arm  with   the  most 


I 


ON-  BEING  HARD    UP,  43 

notorious  scamp  in  London,  provided  he  is  a  well- 
dressed  one,  will  slink  up  a  back  street  to  say  a 
couple  of  words  to  a  seedy-looking  gentleman. 
And  the  seedy-looking  gentleman  knows  this— 
no  one  better — and  will  go  a  mile  round  to  avoid 
meeting  an  acquaintance.  Those  that  knew  him 
in  his  prosperity  need  never  trouble  themselves 
to  look  the  other  way.  He  is  a  thousand  times 
more  anxious  that  they  should  not  see  him  than 
they  can  be ;  and  as  to  their  assistance,  there  is 
nothing  he  dreads  more  than  the  offer  of  it.  All 
he  wants  is  to  be  forgotten  ;  and  in  this  respect  he 
is  generally  fortunate  enough  to  get  what  he 
wants. 

One  becomes  used  to  being  hard  up,  as  one  be- 
comes used  to  everything  else,  by  the  help  of  that 
wonderful  old  homoeopathic  doctor,  Time.  You 
can  tell  at  a  glance  the  difference  between  the  old 
hand  and  the  novice ;  between  the  case-hardened 
man  who  has  been  used  to  shift  and  struggle  for 
years,  and  the  poor  devil  of  a  beginner,  striving 
to  hide  his  misery,  and  in  a  constant  agony  of  fear 
lest  he  should  be  found  out.  Nothing  shows  this 
difference  more  clearly  than  the  way  in  which 
each  will  pawn  his  watch.     As  the  poet  says  some« 


44  ON  BEING  HARD    UP, 

where:  **True  ease  in  pawning  comes  from  art, 
not  chance."  The  one  goes  into  his  "Uncle's  ' 
with  as  much  composure  as  he  would  into  his 
tailor's — very  likely  with  more.  The  assistant  is 
even  civil  and  attends  to  him  at  once  to  the  great 
indignation  of  the  lady  in  the  next  box,  who,  how- 
ever, sarcastically  observes  that  she  don't  mind 
being  kept  waiting  "if  it  is  a  regular  customer." 
Why,  from  the  pleasant  and  business-like  manner 
in  which  the  transaction  is  carried  out,  it  might 
be  a  large  purchase  in  the  Three  per  Cents.  Yet 
what  a  piece  of  work  a  man  makes  of  his  first 
"pop."  A  boy  popping  his  first  question  is  con- 
fidence itself  compared  with  him.  He  hangs 
about  outside  the  shop,  until  he  has  succeeded  in 
attracting  the  attention  of  all  the  loafers  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  has  aroused  strong  suspicions 
in  the  mind  of  the  policeman  on  the  beat.  At 
last,  after  a  careful  examination  of  the  contents  of 
the  windows,  made  for  the  purpose  of  impressing 
the  by-standers  with  the  notion  that  he  is  going 
in  to  purchase  a  diamond  bracelet  or  some  such 
trifle,  he  enters,  trying  to  do  so  with  a  careless 
swagger,  and  giving  himself  really  the  air  of  a 
member   of    the   swell   mob.      When   inside,  he 


ON  BEING  HARD    UP,  45 

speaks  in  so  low  a  voice  as  to  be  perfectly  inaudi- 
ble, and  has  to  say  it  all  over  again.  When,  in 
the  course  of  his  rambling  conversation  about  a 
* 'friend"  of  his,  the  word  "lend"  is  reached,  he  is 
promptly  told  to  go  up  the  court  on  the  right, 
and  take  the  first  door  round  the  corner.  He 
comes  out  of  the  shop  with  a  face  that  you  could 
easily  light  a  cigarette  at,  and  firmly  under  the 
impression  that  the  whole  population  of  the  dis- 
trict is  watching  him.  When  he  does  get  to  the 
right  place  he  has  forgotten  his  name  and  address, 
and  is  in  a  general  condition  of  hopeless  imbecility. 
Asked  in  a  severe  tone  how  he  came  by  "this," 
he  stammers  and  contradicts  himself,  and  it  is 
only  a  miracle  if  he  does  not  confess  to  having 
stolen  it  that  very  day.  He  is  thereupon  informed 
that  they  don't  want  anything  to  do  with  his  sort, 
and  that  he  had  better  get  out  of  this  as  quickly 
as  possible,  which  he  does,  recollecting  nothing 
more  until  he  finds  himself  three  miles  off, 
without  the  slightest  knowledge  how  he  got 
there. 

By  the  way,  how  awkward  it  is,  though,  having 
to  depend  on  public-houses  and  churches  for  the 
time.     The  former  are  generally  too  fast,  and  the 


46  ON  BEING  HARD    UP. 

latter  too  slow.  Besides  which,  your  efforts  to  get 
a  glimpse  of  the  public-house  clock  from  the  out- 
side, are  attended  with  great  difficulties.  If  you 
gently  push  the  swing  door  ajar  and  peer  in,  you 
draw  upon  yourself  the  contemptuous  looks  of  the 
barmaid,  who  at  once  puts  you  down  in  the  same 
category  with  area  sneaks  and  cadgers.  You  also 
create  a  certain  amount  of  agitation  among  the 
married  portion  of  the  customers.  You  don't  see 
the  clock,  because  it  is  behind  the  door:  and  in 
trying  to  withdraw  quietly  you  jamb  your  head. 
The  only  other  method  is  to  jump  up  and  down 
outside  the  window.  After  this  latter  proceed- 
ing, however,  if  you  do  not  bring  out  a  banjo  and 
commence  to  sing,  the  youthful  inhabitants  of  the 
neighborhood,  who  have  gathered  round  in  ex- 
pectation, become  disappointed. 

I  should  like  to  know,  too,  by  what  mysterious 
law  of  nature  it  is  that,  before  you  have  left  your 
watch  "to  be  repaired"  half-an-hour,  some  one  is 
sure  to  stop  you  in  the  street  and  conspicuously 
ask  you  the  time.  Nobody  even  feels  the 
slightest  curiosity  on  the  subject  when  you've  got 
it  on. 

Dear  old  ladies  and  gentlemen,  who  know  noth- 


ON  BEING  HARD    UP.  47 

ing  about  being  hard  up — and  may  they  never, 
bless  their  gray  old  heads — look  upon  the  pawn- 
shop as  the  last  stage  of  degradation ;  but  those 
who  know  it  better  (and  my  readers  have,  no 
doubt,  noticed  this  themselves),  are  often  sur- 
prised, like  the  little  boy  who  dreamed  he  went  to 
Heaven,  at  meeting  so  many  people  there  that 
they  never  expected  to  see.  For  my  part,  I  think 
it  a  much  more  independent  course  than  borrow- 
ing from  friends,  and  I  always  try  to  impress  this 
upon  those  of  my  acquaintance  who  incline  to- 
ward "wanting  a  couple  of  pounds  till  the  day 
after  to-morrow."  But  they  wont  all  see  it.  One 
of  them  once  remarked  that  he  objected  to  the 
principle  of  the  thing.  I  fancy  if  he  had  said  it 
was  the  interest  that  he  objected  to  he  would 
have  been  nearer  the  truth :  twenty-five  per  cent, 
certainly  does  come  heavy. 

There  are  degrees  in  being  hard  up.  We  are 
all  hard  up,  more  or  less — most  of  us  more.  Some 
are  hard  up  for  a  thousand  pounds ;  some  for  a 
shilling.  Just  at  this  moment  I  am  hard  up  my- 
self for  a  fiver.  I  only  want  it  for  a  day  or  two. 
I  should  be  certain  of  paying  it  back  within  a 
week  at  the  outside,  and  if  any  lady  or  gentleman 


48  ON  BEING  HARD   UP. 

among  my  readers  would  kindly  lend  it  me,  I 
should  be  very  much  obliged  indeed.  They  could 
send  it  to  me,  under  cover  to  Messrs.  Field  and 
Tuer,  only,  in  such  case,  please  let  the  envelope 
be  carefully  sealed.  I  would  give  you  my  I.O.U. 
as  security. 


ON  VANITY  AND  VANITIES. 
*   LL   is  vanity,  and  everybody's  vain.     Wo. 


A" 


men  are  terribly  vain.  So  are  men — 
more  so,  if  possible.  So  are  children,  particu- 
larly children.  One  of  them,  at  this  very 
moment,  is  hammering  upon  my  legs.  She 
wants  to  know  what  I  think  of  her  new  shoes. 
Candidly  I  don't  think  much  of  them.)  They 
lack  symmetry  and  curve,  and  possess  an  inde- 
scribable appearance  of  lumpiness  (I  believe,  too, 
they've  put  them  on  the  wrong  feet).  But  I 
don't  say  this.  It  is  not  criticism,  but  flattery 
that  she  wants  ;  and  I  gush  over  them  with  what 
I  feel  to  myself  to  be  degrading  effusiveness. 
Nothing  else  would  satisfy  this  self-opinionated 
cherub.  I  tried  the  conscientious  friend  dodge 
with  her  on  one  occasion,  but  it  was  not  a 
success.  (^She  had  requested  my  judgment  upon 
her  general  conduct  and  behavior,  the  exact  case 
submitted  being  :  "  Wot  oo  tink  of  me  ?  Oo 
peased  wi'  me?"  and  I  had  thought  it  a  good 

49 


50  ON    VANITY  AND    VANITIES. 

opportunity  to  make  a  few  salutory  remarks 
upon  her  late  moral  career,  and  said:  "No,  I 
am  not  pleased  with  you."  I  recalled  to  her 
mind  the  events  of  that  very  morning,  and  I  put 
it  to  her  how  she,  as  a  Christian  child,  could 
expect  a  wise  and  good  uncle  to  be  satisfied  with 
the  carryings  on  of  an  infant  who  that  very  day 
had  roused  the  whole  house  at  5  A.M. ;  had  upset 
a  water  jug,  and  tumbled  downstairs  after  it  at 
7;  had  endeavored  to  put  the  cat  in  the  bath  at 
8 ;  and  sat  on  her  own  father's  hat  at  9:35. 

What  did  she  do  ?  Was  she  grateful  to  me 
for  my  plain  speaking?  Did  she  ponder  upon 
my  words,  and  determine  to  profit  by  them,  and 
to  lead,  from  that  hour,  a  better  and  nobler  life  ? 

No !  she  howled. 

That  done,  she  became  abusive.     She  said  : 

"  Oo  naughty — 00  naughty,  bad  unkie — 00  bad 
man— me  tell  MAR." 

And  she  did,  too. 

Since  then,  when  my  views  have  been  called 
for,  I  have  kept  my  real  sentiments  more  to 
myself  like,  preferring  to  express  unbounded 
admiration  of  this  young  person's  actions,  irre- 
spective of  their  actual  merits.     And  she  nods 


ON    VANITY  AND    VANITIES.  5 1 

her  head  approvingly,  and  trots  off  to  advertise 
my  opinion  to  the  rest  of  the  household.  She 
appears  to  employ  it  as  a  sort  of  testimonial  for 
mercenary  purposes,  for  I  subsequently  hear 
distant  sounds  of  *'  Unkie  says  me  dood  dirl — 
me  dot  to  have  two  bikkies."  * 

There  she  goes,  now,  gazing  rapturously  at  her 
own  toes,  and  murmuring  "  pittie " — two-foot- 
ten  of  conceit  and  vanity ;  to  say  nothing  of  other 
wickednesses. 

They  are  all  alike.  I  remember  sitting  in  a 
garden  one  sunny  afternoon  in  the  suburbs  of 
London.  Suddenly  I  heard  a  shrill,  treble  voice 
calling  from  a  top  story  window  to  some  unseen 
being,  presumably  in  one  of  the  other  gardens, 
"Gamma,  me  dood  boy,  me  wery  good  boy, 
Gamma;  me  dot  on  Bob's  knickiebockies." 

Why,  even  animals  are  vain.  I  saw  a  great 
Newfoundland  dog,  the  other  day,  sitting  in  front 
of  a  mirror  at  the  entrance  to  a  shop  in  Regent's 
Circus,  and  examining  himself  with  an  amount  of 
smug  satisfaction  that  I  have  never  seen  equaled 
elsewhere,  outside  a  vestry  meeting. 

*  Early  English  for  biscuits. 


52  ON   VANITY  AND    VANITIES. 

I  was  at  a  farmhouse  once,  when  some  high 
holiday  was  being  celebrated.  I  don't  remember 
what  the  occasion  was,  but  it  was  something  fes- 
tive, a  May-day  or  Quarter-day,  or  something  of 
that  sort,  and  they  put  a  garland  of  flowers  round 
the  head  of  one  of  the  cows.  Well,  that  absurd 
quadruped  went  about  all  day  as  perky  as  a 
school-girl  in  a  new  frock ;  and,  when  they  took 
the  wreath  off,  she  became  quite  sulky,  and 
they  had  to  put  it  on  again  before  she  would 
stand  still  to  be  milked.  This  is  not  a  Percy 
anecdote.  It  is  plain,  sober  truth. 
f  As  for  cats,  they  nearly  equal  human  beings  for 
vanity.  I  have  known  a  cat  get  up  and  walk  out 
of  the  room,  on  a  remark  derogatory  to  her  spe- 
cies being  made  by  a  visitor,  while  a  neatly  turned 
compliment  will  set  them  purring  for  an  hour. 

I  do  like  cats.  They  are  so  unconsciously 
amusing.  There  is  such  a  comic  dignity  about 
them,  such  an  "How  dare  you!"  "Go  away, 
don't  touch  me"  sort  of  air.  Now  there  is  noth- 
ing haughty  about  a  dog.  They  are  "Hail,  fel- 
low, well  met"  with  every  Tom,  Dick,  or  Harry 
that  they  come  across.  When  I  meet  a  dog  of 
my  acquaintance,  I  slap  his  head,  call  him  oppro- 


ON    VANITY  AND    VANITIES.  53 

brious  epithets,  and  roll  him  over  on  his  back ;  and 
there  he  lies,  gaping  at  me,  and  doesn't  mind  it  a  bit. 
Fancy  carrying  on  like  that  with  a  cat !  Why, 
she  would  never  speak  to  you  again  as  long  as 
you  lived.  )  No,  when  you  want  to  win  the  appro- 
bation of  a  cat  you  must  mind  what  you  are 
about,  and  work  your  way  carefully.  If  you 
don't  know  the  cat,  you  had  best  begin  by  say- 
ing, "Poor  pussy."  After  which,  add,  "did  'ums," 
in  a  tone  of  soothing  sympathy.  You  don't 
know  what  you  mean,  any  more  than  the  cat 
does,  but  the  sentiment  seems  to  imply  a  proper 
spirit  on  your  part,  and  generally  touches  her 
feelings  to  such  an  extent  that,  if  you  are  of  good 
manners  and  passable  appearance,  she  will  stick 
her  back  up  and  rub  her  nose  against  you.  Mat- 
ters having  reached  this  stage,  you  may  venture 
to  chuck  her  under  the  chin,  and  tickle  the  side 
of  her  head,  and  the  intelligent  creature  will  then 
stick  her  claws  into  your  legs ;  and  all  is  friend- 
ship and  affection,  as  so  sweetly  expressed  in  the 
beautiful  lines — 

I  love  little  Pussy,  her  coat  is  so  warm, 

And  if  I  don't  tease  her,  she'll  do  me  no  harm  ; 

So  I'll  stroke  her,  and  pat  her,  and  feed  her  with  foo(L 

And  Pussy  will  love  me  because  1  am  good. 


54  ON    VANITY  AND    VANITIES. 

The  last  two  lines  of  the  stanza  give  us  a 
pretty  true  insight  into  pussy's  notions  of  human 
goodness.  It  is  evident  that  in  her  opinion  good- 
ness consists  of  stroking  her,  and  patting  her,  and 
feeding  her  with  food.  I  fear  this  narrow- 
minded  view  of  virtue,  though,  is  not  confined  to 
pussies.  We  are  all  inclined  to  adopt  a  similar 
standard  of  merit  in  our  estimate  of  other  people. 
A  good  man  is  a  man  who  is  good  to  us,  and  a 
bad  man  is  a  man  who  doesn't  do  what  we  want 
him  to.  The  truth  is,  we  each  of  us  have  an 
inborn  conviction  that  the  whole  world,  with 
everybody  and  everything  in  it,  was  created  as  a 
sort  of  necessary  appendage  to  ourselves.  Our 
fellow  men  and  women  were  made  to  admire  us, 
and  to  minister  to  our  various  requirements. 
You  and  I,  dear  reader,  are  each  the  center  of  the 
universe  in  our  respective  opinions.  You,  as  I 
understand  it,  were  brought  into  being  by  a  con- 
siderate Providence  in  order  that  you  might  read 
and  pay  me  for  what  I  write;  while  I,  in  your 
opinion,  am  an  article  sent  into  the  world  to 
write  something  for  you  to  read.  The  stars — as 
we  term  the  myriad  other  worlds  that  are  rushing 
down  beside  us  through  the  eternal  silence — were 


ON    VANITY  AND    VANITIES.  55 

put  into  the  heavens  to  make  the  sky  look  inter- 
esting for  us  at  night.  And  the  moon,  with 
its  dark  mysteries  and  ever-hidden  face,  is  an 
arrangement  for  us  to  flirt  under. 

I  fear  we  are  most  of  us  like  Mrs.  Poyser's  ban- 
tam cock,  who  fancied  the  sun  got  up  every 
morning  to  hear  him  crow.  "  Tis  vanity  that 
makes  the  world  go  round."  I  don't  believe  any 
man  ever  existed  without  vanity,  and,  if  he  did, 
he  would  be  an  extremely  uncomfortable  person 
to  have  anything  to  do  with.  He  would,  of 
course,  be  a  very  good  man,  and  we  should 
respect  him  very  much.  He  would  be  a  very 
admirable  man — a  man  to  be  put  under  a  glass 
case,  and  shown  round  as  a  specimen — a  man  to 
be  stuck  upon  a  pedestal,  and  copied,  like  a 
school  exercise — a  man  to  be  reverenced,  but  not 
a  man  to  be  loved,  not  a  human  brother  whose 
hand  we  should  care  to  grip.  Angels  may  be 
very  excellent  sort  of  folk  in  their  way,  but  we, 
poor  mortals,  in  our  present  state,  would  prob- 
ably find  them  precious  slow  company.  Even 
mere  good  people  are  rather  depressing.  It  is  in 
our  faults  and  failings,  not  in  our  virtues,  that  we 
touch   one    another,   and    find    sympathy.      We 


56  ON    VANITY  AND    VANITIES. 

differ  widely  enough  in  our  nobler  qualities.  It 
is  in  our  follies  that  we  are  at  one.  Some  of  us 
are  pious,  some  of  us  are  generous.  Some  few  of 
us  are  honest,  comparatively  speaking;  and  some, 
fewer  still,  may  possibly  be  truthful.  But  in 
vanity  and  kindred  weaknesses  we  can  all  join 
hands.  Vanity  is  one  of  those  touches  of  Nature 
that  make  the  whole  world  kin.  From  the  In- 
dian hunter,  proud  of  his  belt  of  scalps,  to  the 
European  general,  swelling  beneath  his  row  of 
stars  and  medals;  from  the  Chinese,  gleeful  at 
the  length  of  his  pigtail,  to  the  "professional 
beauty,"  suffering  tortures  in  order  that  her  waist 
may  resemble  a  peg-top;  from  draggle-tailed  little 
Polly  Stiggins,  strutting  through  Seven  Dials 
with  a  tattered  parasol  over  her  head,  to  the 
princess,  sweeping  through  a  drawing-room,  with 
a  train  of  four  yards  long;  from  'Arry,  winning 
by  vulgar  chaff  the  loud  laughter  of  his  pals,  to 
the  statesman,  whose  ears  are  tickled  by  the 
cheers  that  greet  his  high-sounding  periods ;  from 
the  dark-skinned  African,  bartering  his  rare  oils 
and  ivory  for  a  few  glass  beads  to  hang  about  his 
neck,  to  the  Christian  maiden,  selling  her  white 
body  for  a  score  of  tiny    stones  and    an    empty 


ON    VANITY  AND    VANITIES.  57 

title  to  tack  before  her  name — all  march,  and 
fight,  and  bleed,  and  die  beneath  its  tawdry  flag. 

Ay,  ay,  vanity  is  truly  the  motive-power  that 
moves  Humanity,  and  it  is  flattery  that  greases 
the  wheels.  If  you  want  to  win  affection  and 
respect  in  this  world,  you  must  flatter  people. 
Flatter  high  and  low,  and  rich  and  poor,  and  silly 
and  wise.  You  will  get  on  famously.  Praise  this 
man's  virtues  and  that  man's  vices.  Compliment 
everybody  upon  everything,  and  especially  upon 
what  they  haven't  got.  Admire  guys  for  their 
beauty,  fools  for  their  wit,  and  boors  for  their 
breeding.  Your  discernment  and  intelligence 
will  be  extolled  to  the  skies. 

Every  one  can  be  got  over  by  flattery.  The 
belted  earl — "belted  earl"  is  the  correct  phrase,  I 
believe.  I  don't  know  what  it  means,  unless  it 
be  an  earl  that  wears  a  belt  instead  of  braces. 
Some  men  do.  I  don't  like  it  myself.  You 
have  to  keep  the  thing  so  tight,  for  it  to  be  of 
any  use,  and  that  is  uncomfortable.  Anyhow, 
whatever  particular  kind  of  an  earl  a  belted  earl 
may  be,  he  is,  I  assert,  get-overable  by  flattery; 
just  as  every  other  human  being  is,  from  a  duch- 
ess to  a  cat's-meat   man,   from  a  plowboy   to  a 


58  ON    VANITY  AND    VANITIES 

poet — and  the  poet  far  easier  than  the  plovvboy, 
for  butter  sinks  better  into  wheaten  bread  than 
into  oaten  cakes. 

As  for  love,  flattery  is  its  very  life  blood.  Fill 
a  person  with  love  for  themselves,  and  what  runs 
over  will  be  your  share,  says  a  certain  witty  and 
truthful  Frenchnfian,  whose  name  I  can't  for  the 
life  of  me  remember.  (Confound  it,  I  never  can 
remember  names  when  I  want  to.)  Tell  a  girl 
she  is  an  angel,  only  more  angelic  than  an  angel ; 
that  she  is  a  goddess,  only  more  graceful, 
queenly,  and  heavenly  than  the  average  goddess; 
that  she  is  more  fairy-like  than  Titania,  more 
beautiful  than  Venus,  more  enchanting  than  Par- 
thenope;  more  adorable,  lovely,  and  radiant,  in 
short,  than  any  other  woman  that  ever  did  live, 
does  live  or  could  live,  and  you  will  make  a  very 
favorable  impression  upon  her  trusting  little 
heart.  Sweet  innocent !  she  will  believe  every 
word  you  say.  It  is  so  easy  to  deceive  a  woman — 
in  this  way. 

Dear  little  souls,  they  hate  flattery,  so  they  tell 
you  ;  and,  when  you  say,  **  Ah,  darling,  it  isn't 
flattery  in  your  case,  it's  plain,  sober  truth  ;  you 
really  are,  without  exaggeration,  the  most  beauti- 


ON   VANITY  AND    VANITIES.  59 

ful,  the  most  good,  the  most  charming,  the  most 
divine,  the  most  perfect  human  creature  that 
ever  trod  this  earth,"  they  will  smile  a  quiet, 
approving  smile,  and,  leaning  against  your  manly 
shoulder,  murmur  that  you  are  a  dear  good  fellow- 
after  all. 

By  Jove,  fancy  a  man  trying  to  make  love  on 
strictly  truthful  principles,  determining  never  to 
utter  a  word  of  mere  compliment  or  hyperbole, 
but  to  scrupulously  confine  himself  to  exact  fact! 
Fancy  his  gazing  rapturously  into  his  mistress's 
eyes,  and  whispering  softly  to  her  that  she 
wasn't,  on  the  whole,  bad-looking,  as  girls  went ! 
Fancy  his  holding  up  her  little  hand,  and  assuring 
her  that  it  was  of  a  light  drab  color,  shot  with 
red ;  and  telling  her,  as  he  pressed  her  to  his 
heart,  that  her  nose,  for  a  turned-up  one,  seemed 
rather  pretty ;  and  that  her  eyes  appeared  to 
him,  as  far  as  he  could  judge,  to  be  quite  up  to 
the  average  standard  of  such  things  ! 

A  nice  chance  he  would  stand  against  the  man 
who  would  tell  her  that  her  face  was  like  a  fresh 
blush  rose,  that  her  hair  was  a  wandering  sun- 
beam imprisoned  by  her  smiles,  and  her  eyes  like 
two  evening  stars. 


6o  ON   VANITY      ND    VANITIES. 

There  are  various  ways  of  flattering,  and,  of 
course,  you  must  adapt  your  style  to  your  sub- 
ject. Some  people  like  it  laid  on  with  a  trowel, 
and  this  requires  very  little  art.  With  sensible 
persons,  however,  it  needs  to  be  done  very  deli- 
cately, and  more  by  suggestion  than  actual 
words.  A  good  many  like  it  wrapped  up  in  the 
form  of  an  insult,  as — "■  Oh,  you  are  a  perfect 
fool, you  are.  You  would  give  your  last  sixpence 
to  the  first  hungry-looking  beggar  you  met "; 
while  others  will  swallow  it  only  when  admin- 
istered through  the  medium  of  a  third  person,  so 
that  if  C  wishes  to  get  at  an  A  of  this  sort,  he 
must  confide  to  A's  particular  friend  B  that  he 
thinks  A  a  splendid  fellow,  and  beg  him,  B,  not 
to  mention  it,  especially  to  A.  Be  careful  that  B 
is  a  reliable  man,  though,  otherwise  he  won't. 

Those  fine,  sturdy  John  Bulls,  who  "  hate  flat- 
tery, sir,"  "  Never  let  anybody  get  over  me  by 
flattery,"  etc,  etc.,  are  very  simply  managed. 
Flatter  them  enough  upon  their  absence  of 
vanity,  and  you  can  do  what  you  like  with  them. 

After  all,  vanity  is  as  much  a  virtue  as  a  vice. 
It  is  easy  to  recite  copy-book  maxims  against  its 
sinfulness,  but  it  is  a  passion  that  can   move  us 


ON    VANITY  AND    VANITIES.  6 1 

to  good  as  well  as  to  evil.  Ambition  is  only- 
vanity  ennobled.  We  want  to  win  praise  and 
admiration — or  Fame  as  we  prefer  to  name  it — 
and  so  we  write  great  books,  and  paint  grand 
pictures,  and  sing  sweet  songs ;  and  toil  with 
willing  hands  in  study,  loom,  and  laboratory. 

We  wish  to  become  rich  men,  not  in  order  to 
enjoy  ease  and  comfort — all  that  any  one  man 
can  taste  of  those  may  be  purchased  anywhere 
for  two  hundred  pounds  per  annum — but  that 
our  houses  may  be  bigger  and  more  gaudily 
furnished  than  our  neighbors' ;  that  our  horses 
and  servants  may  be  more  numerous  ;  that  we 
may  dress  our  wives  and  daughters  in  absurd,  but 
expensive  clothes ;  and  that  we  may  give  costly 
dinners  of  which  we  ourselves  individually  do 
not  eat  a  shilling's  worth.  And  to  do  this,  we 
aid  the  world's  work  with  clear  and  busy  brain, 
spreading  commerce  among  its  peoples,  carrying 
civilization  to  its  remotest  corners. 

Do  not  let  us  abuse  vanity,  therefore.  Rather 
let  us  use  it.  Honor  itself  is  but  the  highest  form 
of  vanity.  The  instinct  is  not  confined  solely  to 
Beau  Brummels  and  Dolly  Vardens.  There  is 
the  vanity  of  the  peacock,  and  the  vanity  of   the 


62  ON    VANITY  AND    VANITIES. 

eagle.  Snobs  are  vain.  But  so,  too,  are  heroes. 
Come,  oh  !  my  young  brother  bucks,  let  us  be 
vain  together.  Let  us  join  hands,  and  help  each 
other  to  increase  our  vanity.  Let  us  be  vain, 
not  of  our  trousers  and  hair,  but  of  brave  hearts 
and  working  hands,  of  truth,  of  purity,  of 
nobility.  Let  us  be  too  vain  to  stoop  to  aught 
that  is  mean  or  base,  too  vain  for  petty  selfish- 
ness and  little-minded  envy,  too  vain  to  say  an 
unkind  word  or  do  an  unkind  act.  Let  us  be 
vain  of  being  single-hearted,  upright  gentlemen 
in  the  midst  of  a  world  of  knaves.  Let  us  pride 
ourselves  upon  thinking  high  thoughts,  achieving 
great  deeds,  living  good  lives. 


ON  GETTING  ON  IN  THE  WORLD, 

XT  OT  exactly  the  sort  of  thing  for  an  idle 
^  ^  fellow  to  think  about,  is  it?  But  outsiders, 
you  know,  often  see  most  of  the  game ;  and 
sitting  in  my  arbor  by  the  wayside,  smoking  my 
hookah  of  contentment,  and  eating  the  sweet 
lotus-leaves  of  indolence,  I  can  look  out 
musingly  upon  the  whirling  throng  that  rolls 
and  tumbles  past  me  on  the  great  highroad  of 
life. 

Never-ending  is  the  wild  procession.  Day  and 
night  you  can  hear  the  quick  tramp  of  the  my- 
riad feet — some  running,  some  walking,  some 
halting  and  lame  ;  but  all  hastening,  all  eager  in 
the  feverish  race,  all  straining  life  and  limb  and 
heart  and  soul  to  reach  the  ever-receding  horizon 
of  success. 
/"  Mark  them  as  they  surge  along — men  and 
women,  old  and  young,  gentle  and  simple,  fair 
and  foul,  rich  and  poor,  merry  and  sad — all  hurry- 
ing, bustling,    scrambling.     The  strong  pushing 

63 


64  ON  GETTING  ON  IN   THE   WORLD. 

aside  the  weak,  the  cunning  creeping  past  the 
fooh'sh ;  those  behind  elbowing  those  before ; 
those  in  front  kicking,  as  they  run,  at  those 
behind.  Look  close,  and  see  the  flitting  show. 
Here  is  an  old  man  panting  for  breath  ;  and  there 
a  timid  maiden,  driven  by  a  hard  and  sharp- 
faced  matron  ;  here  is  a  studious  youth,  reading 
"  How  to  get  on  in  the  World,"  and  letting 
everybody  pass  him  as  he  stumbles  along  with 
his  eyes  on  his  book  ;  here  is  a  bored-looking 
man,  with  a  fashionably  dressed  woman  jogging 
his  elbow ;  here  a  boy  gazing  wistfully  back  at 
the  sunny  village  that  he  never  again  will  see  ; 
here,  with  a  firm  and  easy  step,  strides  a  broad- 
shouldered  man  ;  and  here,  with  stealthy  tread, 
a  thin-faced,  stooping  fellow  dodges  and  shufBes 
upon  his  way  ;  here,  with  gaze  fixed  always  on 
the  ground,  an  artful  rogue  carefully  works  his 
way  from  side  to  side  of  the  road,  and  thinks 
he  is  going  forward  ;  and  here  a  youth  with  a 
noble  face  stands,  hesitating  as  he  looks  from  the 
distant  goal  to  the  mud  beneath  his  feet. 

And  now  into  sight  comes  a  fair  girl,  with  her 
dainty  face  growing  more  wrinkled  at  every  step; 
and  now  a  careworn  man,  and  now  a  hopeful  lad. 


ON  GETTING   ON  IN   THE   WORLD.  65 

A  motley  throng — a  motley  throng!  Prince 
and  beggar,  sinner  and  saint,  butcher  and  baker 
and  candlestick-maker,  tinkers  and  tailors,  and 
plowboys  and  sailors — all  jostling  along  to- 
gether. Here  the  counsel  in  his  wig  and  gown, 
and  here  the  old  Jew  clothesman  under  his  dingy 
tiara  ;  here  the  soldier  in  his  scarlet,  and  here  the 
undertaker's  mute  in  streaming  hat-band  and 
worn  cotton  gloves ;  here  the  musty  scholar, 
fumbling  his  faded  leaves,  and  here  the  scented 
actor,  dangling  his  showy  seals.  Here  the  glib 
politician,  crying  his  legislative  panaceas  ;  and 
here  the  peripatetic  Cheap-Jack,  holding  aloft  his 
quack  cures  for  human  ills.  Here  the  sleek 
capitalist,  and  there  the  sinewy  laborer ;  here 
the  man  of  science,  and  here  the  shoe-black ; 
here  the  poet,  and  here  the  water-rate  col- 
lector ;  here  the  cabinet  minister,  and  there 
the  ballet-dancer.  Here  a  red-nosed  publi- 
can, shouting  the  praises  of  his  vats  ;  and  here  a 
temperance  lecturer  at  fifty  pounds  a  night:  here 
a  judge,  and  there  a  swindler  ;  here  a  priest,  and 
there  a  gambler.  Here  a  jewelled  duchess,  smil- 
ing and  gracious ;  here  a  thin  lodging-house 
keeper,    irritable    with    cooking;    and    here     a 


66  OAT  GETTING  OAT  IN   THE   WORLD, 

wabbling,  strutting  thing,  tawdry  in  paint  and 
finery. 

Cheek  by  cheek,  they  struggle  onward. 
Screaming,  cursing,  and  praying,  laughing,  sing- 
ing, and  moaning,  they  rush  past  side  by  side. 
Their  speed  never  slackens,  the  race  never  ends. 
There  is  no  wayside  rest  for  them,  no  halt  by 
cooling  fountains,  no  pause  beneath  green 
shades.  On,  on,  on — on  through  the  heat  and 
the  crowd  and  the  dust — on,  or  they  will  be 
trampled  down  and  lost — on,  with  throbbing 
brain  and  tottering  limbs — on,  till  the  heart 
grows  sick,  and  the  eyes  grow  blurred,  and  a 
gurgling  groan  tells  those  behind  they  may  close 
up  another  space. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  killing  pace  and  the 
stony  track,  who,  but  the  sluggard  or  the  dolt, 
can  hold  aloof  from  the  course  ?  Who — like  the 
belated  traveler  that  stands  watching  fairy  rev- 
els till  he  snatches  and  drains  the  goblin  cup, 
and  springs  into  the  whirling  circle — can  view 
the  mad  tumult,  and  not  be  drawn  into  its 
midst  ?  Not  I,  for  one.  I  confess  to  the  way- 
side arbor,  the  pipe  of  contentment,  and  the 
lotus-leaves   being   altogether    unsuitable    meta' 


ON  GETTING  ON  IN   THE   WORLD.  67 

phors.  They  sounded  very  nice  and  philosophical, 
but  I'm  afraid  I  am  not  the  sort  of  person  to  sit 
in  arbors,  smoking  pipes,  when  there  is  any  fun 
going  on  outside.  I  think  I  more  resemble  the 
Irishman,  who,  seeing  a  crowd  collecting,  sent 
his  little  girl  out  to  ask  if  there  was  going  to  be  a 
row — **  'Cos,  if  so,  father  would  like  to  be  in  it.'* 

I  love  the  fierce  strife.  I  like  to  watch  it.  I 
like  to  hear  of  people  getting  on  in  it — battling 
their  way  bravely  and  fairly — that  is,  not  slip- 
ping through  by  luck  or  trickery.  It  stirs  one's 
old  Saxon  fighting  blood,  like  the  tales  of 
"  knights  who  fought  'gainst  fearful  odds  "  that 
thrilled  us  in  our  school-boy  days. 

And  fighting  the  battle  of  life  is  fighting 
against  fearful  odds,  too.  There  are  giants  and 
dragons  in  this  nineteenth  century,  and  the  gol- 
den casket  that  they  guard  is  not  so  easy  to  win 
as  it  appears  in  the  story-books.  There,  Alger- 
non takes  one  long,  last  look  at  the  ancestral 
hall,  dashes  the  tear-drop  from  his  eye,  and  goes 
off — to  return  in  three  years'  time,  rolling  in 
riches.  The  authors  do  not  tell  us  *'how  it's 
done,"  which  is  a  pity,  for  it  would  surely  prove 
exciting. 


68  ON  GETTING  ON  IN   THE   WORLD. 

But  then  not  one  novelist  in  a  thousand  ever 
does  tell  us  the  real  story  of  their  hero.  They 
linger  for  a  dozen  pages  over  a  tea-party,  but 
sum  up  a  life's  history  with  "  he  had  become  one 
of  our  merchant  princes,"  or,  **  he  was  now  a 
great  artist,  with  the  world  at  his  feet."  Why, 
there  is  more  real  life  in  one  of  Gilbert's  patter- 
songs  than  in  half  the  biographical  novels  ever 
written.  He  relates  to  us  all  the  various  steps 
by  which  his  office-boy  rose  to  be  the  "  ruler  of 
the  Queen's  navee,"  and  explains  to  us  Jiow  the 
briefless  barrister  managed  to  become  a  great 
and  good  judge,  "  ready  to  try  this  breach  of 
promise  of  marriage."  It  is  in  the  petty  details, 
not  in  the  great  results,  that  the  interest  of  ex- 
istence lies. 

What  we  really  want  is  a  novel  showing  us  all 
the  hidden  under-current  of  an  ambitious  man's 
career — his  struggles,  and  failures,  and  hopes,  his 
disappointments,  and  victories.  It  would  be  an 
immense  success.  I  am  sure  the  wooing  of  For- 
tune would  prove  quite  as  interesting  a  tale  as 
the  wooing  of  any  flesh  and  blood  maiden, 
though,  by-the-way,  it  would  read  extremely 
similar;  for   Fortune   is,  indeed,  as   the  ancients 


ON  GETTING  ON  IN   THE   WORLD.  69 

painted  her,  very  like  a  woman — not  quite  so  un- 
reasonable and  inconsistent,  but  nearly  so — and 
the  pursuit  is  much  the  same  in  one  case  as  in 
the  other.     Ben  Jonson's  couplet — 

"  Court  a  mistress,  she  denies  you  ; 
Let  her  alone,  she  will  court  you  " — 

puts  them  both  in  a  nutshell.  A  woman  never 
thoroughly  cares  for  her  lover  until  he  has  ceased 
to  care  for  her;  and  it  is  not  until  you  have 
snapped  your  fingers  in  Fortune's  face,  and 
turned  on  your  heel,  that  she  begins  to  smile 
upon  you. 

But,  by  that  time,  you  do  not  much  care 
whether  she  smiles  or  frowns.  Why  could  she 
not  have  smiled  when  her  smiles  would  have 
filled  you  with  ecstasy  ?  Everything  comes  too 
late  in  this  world. 

Good  people  say  that  it  is  quite  right  and 
proper  that  it  should  be  so,  and  that  it  proves 
ambition  is  wicked. 

Bosh  !  Good  people  are  altogether  wrong. 
(They  always  are,  in  my  opinion.  We  never 
agree  on  any  single  point.)  What  would  the 
world  do  without  ambitious  people,  I  should  like 
to  know  ?     Why,  it  would  be  as  flabby  as  a  Nor- 


70  ON  GETTING  ON  IN   THE   WORLD. 

folk  dumpling.  Ambitious  people  are  the  leaven 
which  raises  it  into  wholesome  bread.  Without 
ambitious  people,  the  world  would  never  get  up. 
They  are  busybodies  who  are  about  early  in  the 
morning,  hammering,  shouting,  and  rattling  the 
fire-irons,  and  rendering  it  generally  impossible 
for  the  rest  of  the  house  to  remain  in  bed. 

Wrong  to  be  ambitious,  forsooth  !  The  men 
wrong,  who,  with  bent  back  and  sweating  brow,  cut 
the  smooth  road  over  which  Humanity  marches 
forward  from  generation  to  generation !  Men 
wrong,  for  using  the  talents  that  their  Master  has 
entrusted  to  them — for  toiling  while  others  play ! 

Of  course,  they  are  seeking  their  reward. 
Man  is  not  given  that  god-like  unselfishness 
that  thinks  only  of  others'  good.  But  in  work- 
ing for  themselves  they  are  working  for  us 
all.  We  are  so  bound  together  that  no  man  can 
labor  for  himself  alone.  Each  blow  he  strikes 
in  his  own  behalf  helps  to  mold  the  Universe. 
The  stream,  in  struggling  onward,  turns  the  mill- 
wheel  ;  the  coral  insect,  fashioning  its  tiny  cell, 
joins  continents  to  one  another;  and  the  ambiti- 
ous man,  building  a  pedestal  for  himself,  leaves  a 
monument  to  posterity.     Alexander  and  Caesar 


ON  GETTING  ON  IN   THE  WORLD.  J I 

fought  for  their  own  ends,  but,  in  doing  so,  they 
put  a  belt  of  civilization  half  round  the  earth. 
Stephenson,  to  win  a  fortune,  invented  the 
steam-engine ;  and  Shakespeare  wrote  his  plays 
in  order  to  keep  a  comfortable  home  for  Mrs. 
Shakespeare  and  the  little  Shakespeares. 

Contented,  unambitious  people  are  all  very 
well  in  their  way.  They  form  a  neat,  useful 
background  for  great  portraits  to  be  painted 
against ;  and  they  make  a  respectable,  if  not  par- 
ticularly intelligent,  audience  for  the  active  spirits 
of  the  age  to  play  before.  I  have  not  a  word  to 
say  against  contented  people  so  long  as  they 
keep  quiet.  But  do  not,  for  goodness*  sake,  let 
them  go  strutting  about,  as  they  are  so  fond  of 
doing,  crying  out  that  they  are  the  true  models 
for  the  whole  species.  Why,  they  are  the  dead- 
heads, the  drones  in  the  great  hive,  the  street 
crowds  that  lounge  about,  gaping  at  those  who 
are  working. 

And  let  them  not  imagine  either — as  they  are 
also  fond  of  doing — that  they  are  very  wise  and 
philosophical,  and  that  it  is  a  very  artful  thing  to 
be  contented.  It  may  be  true  that  "a  contented 
mind  is  happy  anywhere,"  but  so  is  a  Jerusalem 


72  ON  GETTING  ON  IN   THE  WORLD. 

pony,  and  the  consequence  is  that  both  are  put 
anywhere  and  are  treated  anyhow.  "  Oh,  you 
need  not  bother  about  ///;;/,"  is  what  is  said  ;  "  he 
is  very  contented  as  he  is,  and  it  would  be  a  pity 
to  disturb  him."  And  so  your  contented  party 
is  passed  over,  and  the  discontented  man  gets  his 
place. 

If  you  are  foolish  enough  to  be  contented, 
don't  show  it,  but  grumble  with  the  rest ;  and  if 
you  can  do  with  a  little,  ask  for  a  great  deal. 
Because  if  you  don't,  you  won't  get  any.  In  this 
world,  it  is  necessary  to  adopt  the  principle  pur- 
sued by  the  plaintiff  in  an  action  for  damages, 
and  to  demand  ten  times  more  than  you  are 
ready  to  accept.  If  you  can  feel  satisfied  with  a 
hundred,  begin  by  insisting  on  a  thousand  ;  if 
you  start  by  suggesting  a  hundred,  you  will  only 
get  ten. 

It  was  by  not  following  this  simple  plan  that 
poor  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  came  to  such  grief. 
He  fixed  the  summit  of  his  earthly  bliss  at  living 
in  an  orchard  with  an  amiable  woman  and  a  cow, 
and  he  never  attained  even  that.  He  did  get  as 
far  as  the  orchard,  but  the  woman  was  not  ami- 
able, and  she  brought   her  mother  with  her,  and 


ON  GETTING   ON  IN   THE   WORLD.  73 

there  was  no  cow.  Now,  if  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  for  a  large  country  estate,  a  houseful  of 
angels,  and  a  cattle  show,  he  might  have  lived  to 
possess  his  kitchen  garden  and  one  head  of  live 
stock,  and  even  possibly  have  come  across  that 
rara-avis — a  really  amiable  woman. 

What  a  terribly  dull  affair,  too,  life  must  be 
for  contented  people  !  How  heavy  the  time 
must  hang  upon  their  hands,  and  what  on  earth 
do  they  occupy  their  thoughts  with,  supposing 
that  they  have  any?  Reading  the  paper  and 
smoking  seems  to  be  the  intellectual  food  of  the 
majority  of  them,  to  which  the  more  energetic 
add  playing  the  flute  and  talking  about  the 
affairs  of  the  next-door  neighbor. 

They  never  knew  the  excitement  of  expecta- 
tion, nor  the  stern  delight  of  accomplished 
effort,  such  as  stir  the  pulse  of  the  man  who  has 
objects,  and  hopes,  and  plans.  To  the  ambitious 
man,  life  is  a  brilliant  game — a  game  that  calls 
forth  all  his  tact  and  energy,  and  nerve — a  game 
to  be  won,  in  the  long  run,  by  the  quick  eye  and 
the  steady  hand,  and  yet  having  sufHcient  chance 
about  its  working  out  to  give  it  all  tlie  glorious 
zest    of  uncertainty.      He    exults    in    it,    as   the 


74  ON  GETTING   ON  IN   THE   WORLD. 

strong  swimmer  in  the  heaving  billows,  as  the 
athlete  in  the  wrestle,  the  soldier  in  the  battle. 

And  if  he  be  defeated,  he  wins  the  grim  joy  of 
fighting ;  if  he  lose  the  race,  he,  at  least,  has  had 
a  run.  Better  to  work  and  fail,  than  to  sleep 
one's  life  away. 

So,  walk  up,  walk  up,  walk  up.  Walk  up, 
ladies  and  gentlemen!  walk  up,  boys  and  girls! 
Show  your  skill  and  try  your  strength ;  brave 
your  luck,  and  prove  your  pluck.  Walk  up ! 
The  show  is  never  closed,  and  the  game  is 
always  going.  The  only  genuine  sport  in  all  the 
fair,  gentlemen — highly  respectable,  and  strictly 
moral — patronized  by  the  nobility,  clergy,  and 
gentry.  Established  in  the  year  one,  gentlemen, 
and  been  flourishing  ever  since ! — walk  up. 
Walk  up,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  take  a  hand. 
There  are  prizes  for  all,  and  all  can  play.  There 
is  gold  for  the  man  and  fame  for  the  boy  ;  rank 
for  the  maiden  and  pleasure  for  the  fool.  So 
walk  up,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  walk  up ! — all 
prizes,  and  no  blanks  ;  for  some  few  win,  and  as 
to  the  rest,  why — 

"  The  rapture  of  pursuing 

Is  the  prize  the  vanquished  gain." 


ON  THE    WEATHER, 

'nr^HINGS  do  go  so  contrary  like  with  me.  I 
-*-  wanted  to  hit  upon  an  especially  novel,  out- 
of-the-way  subject  for  one  of  these  articles.  '*  I 
will  write  one  paper  about  something  altogether 
new,"  I  said  to  myself  ;  ''something  that  nobody 
else  has  ever  written  or  talked  about  before ; 
and  then  I  can  have  it  all  my  own  way."  And  I 
went  about  for  days,  trying  to  think  of  some- 
thing of  this  kind ;  and  I  couldn't.  And  Mrs. 
Cutting,  our  charwoman,  came  yesterday — I 
don't  mind  mentioning  her  name,  because  I 
know  she  will  not  see  this  book.  She  would  not 
look  at  such  a  frivolous  publication.  She  never 
reads  anything  but  the  Bible  and  Lloyd's  Weekly 
News.  All  other  literature  she  considers  unnec- 
essary and  sinful. 

She  said  :  "  Lor',  sir,  you  do  look  worried." 
I  said  :  '*  Mrs.  Cutting,  I  am  trying  to  think  of 
a  subject,  the  discussion  of  which  will  come  upon 
the  world  in  the  nature  of  a  startler — some  sub- 

75 


76  ON  THE   WEATHER. 

ject  upon  which  no  previous  human  being  has 
ever  said  a  word — some  subject  that  will  attract 
by  its  novelty,  invigorate  by  its  surprising  fresh- 
ness." 

She  laughed,  and  said  I  was  a  funny  gentle- 
man. 

That's  my  luck  again.  When  I  make  serious 
observations,  people  chuckle  ;  when  I  attempt  a 
joke,  nobody  sees  it.  I  had  a  beautiful  one  last 
week.  I  thought  it  so  good,  and  I  worked  it  up, 
and  brought  it  in  artfully  at  a  dinner-party.  I 
forget  how  exactly,  but  we  had  been  talking 
about  the  attitude  of  Shakespeare  toward  the 
Reformation,  and  I  said  something,  and  immedi- 
ately added,  *' Ah,  that  reminds  me;  such  a 
funny  thing  happened  the  other  day  in  White- 
chapel."  "Oh,"  said  they;  ''what  was  that!" 
*'  Oh,  'twas  awfully  funny,"  I  replied,  beginning 
to  giggle  myself ;  ''it  will  make  you  roar  "  ;  and 
I  told  it  them. 

There  was  dead  silence  when  I  finished — it 
was  one  of  those  long  jokes,  too — and  then,  at 
last,  somebody  said  :  "And  that  was  the  joke  ?  " 

I  assure  them  that  it  was,  and  they  were  very 
polite,  and  took  my  word  for  it.     All  but  one  old 


ON  THE   WEATHER,  77 

gentleman,  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  who 
wanted  to  know  which  was  the  joke— what  he 
said  to  her,  or  what  she  said  to  him  ;  and  we 
argued  it  out. 

Some  people  are  too  much  the  other  way.  I 
knew  a  fellow  once,  whose  natural  tendency  to 
laugh  at  everything  was  so  strong  that,  if  you 
wanted  to  talk  seriously  to  him,  you  had  to 
explain  beforehand  that  what  you  were  going  to 
say  would  not  be  amusing.  Unless  you  got  him 
to  clearly  understand  this,  he  would  go  off  into 
fits  of  merriment  over  every  word  you  uttered. 
I  have  known  him,  on  being  asked  the  time,  stop 
short  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  slap  his  leg,  and 
burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  One  never  dared 
say  anything  really  funny  to  that  man.  A  good 
joke  would  have  killed  him  on  the  spot. 

In  the  present  instance,  I  vehemently  repu- 
diated the  accusation  of  frivolity,  and  pressed 
Mrs.  Cutting  for  practical  ideas.  She  then 
became  thoughtful  and  hazarded  **  samplers  "  ; 
saying  that  she  never  heard  them  spoken  much 
of  now,  but  that  they  used  to  be  all  the  rage 
when  she  was  a  girl. 

I  declined  samplers,  and  begged  her  to  think 


78  ON  THE   WEATHER, 

again.  She  pondered  a  long  while,  with  a  tea- 
tray  in  her  hands,  and  at  last  suggested  the 
weather,  which  she  was  sure  had  been  most  try- 
ing of  late. 

And  ever  since  that  idiotic  suggestion,  I  have 
been  unable  to  get  the  weather  out  of  my 
thoughts,  or  anything  else  in. 

It  certainly  is  most  wretched  weather.  At 
all  events,  it  is  so,  now,  at  the  time  I  am  writing, 
and,  if  it  isn't  particularly  unpleasant  when  I 
come  to  be  read,  it  soon  will  be. 

It  always  is  wretched  weather,  according  to 
us.  The  weather  is  like  the  Government,  always 
in  the  wrong.  In  summer  time  we  say  it  is 
stifling;  in  winter  that  it  is  killing;  in  spring 
and  autumn  we  find  fault  with  it  for  being 
neither  one  thing  nor  the  other,  and  wish  it 
would  make  up  its  mind.  If  it  is  fine,  we  say 
the  country  is  being  ruined  for  want  of  rain  ; 
if  it  does  rain,  we  pray  for  fine  weather.  If 
December  passes  without  snow,  we  indignantly 
demand  to  know  what  has  become  of  our  good 
old-fashioned  winters,  and  talk  as  if  we  had  been 
cheated  out  of  something  we  had  bought  and 
paid  for ;  and  when  it  does  snow,  our  language  is 


ON  THE   WEATHER.  79 

a  disgrace  to  a  Christian  nation.  We  shall 
never  be  content  until  each  man  makes  his  own 
weather  and  keeps  it  to  himself. 

If  that  cannot  be  arranged,  we  would  rather 
do  without  it  altogether. 

Yet  I  think  it  is  only  to  us  in  cities  that  all 
weather  is  so  unwelcome.  In  her  own  home, 
the  country.  Nature  is  sweet  in  all  her  moods. 
What  can  be  more  beautiful  than  the  snow, 
falling  big  with  mystery  in  silent  softness,  deck- 
ing the  fields  and  trees  with  white  as  if  for  a 
fairy  wedding!  And  how  delightful  is  a  walk 
when  the  frozen  ground  rings  beneath  our 
swinging  tread — when  our  blood  tingles  in  the 
rare  keen  air,  and  the  sheep  dog's  distant  bark 
and  children's  laughter  peals  faintly  clear  like 
Alpine  bells  across  the  open  hills  !  And  then 
skating  !  scudding  with  wings  of  steel  across  the 
swaying  ice  waking  whirring  music  as  we  fly. 
And  oh,  how  dainty  is  spring — Nature  at  sweet 
eighteen  !  When  the  little,  hopeful  leaves  peep 
out  so  fresh  and  green,  so  pure  and  bright,  like 
young  lives  pushing  shyly  out  into  the  bustling 
world  ;  when  the  fruit-tree  blossoms,  pink  and 
white,    like    village    maidens     in    their    Sunday 


8o  ON  THE  WEATHER. 

frocks,  hide  each  white-washed  cottage  in  a 
cloud  of  fragile  splendor;  and  the  cuckoo's  note 
upon  the  breeze  is  wafted  through  the  woods  ! 
And  summer,  with  its  deep,  dark  green,  and 
drowsy  hum — when  the  rain  drops  whisper 
solemn  secrets  to  the  listening  leaves,  and  the 
twilight  lingers  in  the  lanes  !  And  autumn  !  ah, 
how  sadly  fair,  with  its  golden  glow,  and  the 
dying  grandeur  of  its  tinted  woods — its  blood- 
red  sunsets,  and  its  ghostly  evening  mists,  with 
its  busy  murmur  of  reapers,  and  its  laden 
orchards,  and  the  calling  of  the  gleaners,  and 
the  festivals  of  praise  ! 

The  very  rain,  and  sleet,  and  hail  seem  only 
Nature's  useful  servants,  when  found  doing  their 
simple  duties  in  the  country ;  and  the  East  Wind 
himself  is  nothing  worse  than  a  boisterous  friend, 
when  we  meet  him  between  the  hedgerows. 

But  in  the  city,  where  the  painted  stucco  blis- 
ters under  the  smoky  sun,  and  the  sooty  rain 
brings  slush  and  mud,  and  the  snow  lies  piled  in 
dirty  heaps,  and  the  chill  blasts  whistle  down 
dingy  streets,  and  shriek  round  flaring,  gas-lit  cor- 
ners, no  face  of  Nature  charms  us.  Weather  in 
towns  is  like  a  skylark  in  a  counting-house — out 


ON   THE   WEATHER.  8 1 

of  place,  and  in  the  way.  Towns  ought  to  be 
covered  in,  warmed  by  hot-water  pipes,  and 
lighted  by  electricity.  The  weather  is  a  country 
lass,  and  does  not  appear  to  advantage  in  town. 
We  liked  well  enough  to  flirt  with  her  in  the  hay- 
field,  but  she  does  not  seem  so  fascinating  when 
we  meet  her  in  Pall  Mall.  There  is  too  much  of 
her  there.  The  frank,  free  laugh  and  hearty 
voice  that  sounded  so  pleasant  in  the  dairy,  jars 
against  the  artificiality  of  town-bred  life,  and  her 
ways  become  exceedingly  trying. 

Just  lately  she  has  been  favoring  us  with  almost 
incessant  rain  for  about  three  weeks ;  and  I  am  a 
demd,  damp,  moist,  unpleasant  body,  as  Mr. 
Mantalini  puts  it. 

Our  next-door  neighbor  comes  out  in  the  back 
garden  every  now  and  then,  and  says  it's  doing 
the  country  a  world  of  good — not  his  coming  out 
into  the  back  garden,  but  the  weather.  He 
doesn't  understand  anything  about  it,  but  evef 
since  he  started  a  cucumber  frame  last  summer, 
he  has  regarded  himself  in  the  light  of  an  agricul- 
turist, and  talks  in  this  absurd  way  with  the  idea 
of  impressing  the  rest  of  the  terrace  with  the 
notion   that   he   is  a  retired  farmer.     I  can  only 


82  ON  THE   WEATHER. 

hope  that,  for  this  once,  he  is  correct,  and  that 
the  weather  really  is  doing  good  to  something, 
because  it  is  doing  me  a  considerable  amount  of 
damage.  It  is  spoiling  both  my  clothes  and  my 
temper.  The  latter  I  can  afford,  as  I  have  a 
good  supply  of  it,  but  it  wounds  me  to  the  quick 
to  see  my  dear  old  hats  and  trousers  sinking,  pre- 
maturely worn  and  aged,  beneath  the  cold  world's 
blasts  and  snows. 

There  is  my  new  spring  suit,  too.  A  beautiful 
suit  it  was,  and  now  it  is  hanging  up  so  bespat- 
tered with  mud,  I  can't  bear  to  look  at  it. 

That  was  Jim's  fault,  that  was.  I  should  never 
have  gone  out  in  it  that  night,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  him.  I  was  just  trying  it  on  when  he  came 
in.  He  threw  up  his  arms  with  a  wild  yell,  the 
moment  he  caught  sight  of  it,  and  exclaimed  that 
he  had  "got  'em  again !" 

I  said:  "Does  it  fit  all  right  behind?" 

"Spiffin,  old  man,"  he  replied.  And  then  he 
wanted  to  know  if  I  was  coming  out. 

I  said  "no,"  at  first,  but  he  overruled  me.  He 
said  that  a  man  with  a  suit  like  that  had  no  right 
to  stop  indoors.  "Every  citizen,"  said  he,  "owes 
a  duty  to  the  public.     Each  one  should  contrib- 


ON   THE   WEATHER.  83 

ute  to  the  general  happiness,  as  far  as  lies  in  his 
power.     Come  out,  and  ^\Nt.  the  girls  a  treat." 

Jim  is  slangy.  I  don't  know  where  he  picks  it 
up.     It  certainly  is  not  from  me. 

I  said:  "Do  you  think  it  will  really  please 
'em?" 

He  said  it  would  be  like  a  day  in  the  country 
to  them. 

That  decided  me.  It  was  a  lovely  evening, 
and  I  went. 

When  I  got  home,  I  undressed  and  rubbed 
myself  down  with  whisky,  put  my  feet  in  hot 
water,  and  a  mustard  plaster  on  my  chest,  had  a 
basin  of  gruel  and  a  glass  of  hot  brandy  and 
water,  tallowed  my  nose,  and  went  to  bed. 

These  prompt  and  vigorous  measures,  aided  by 
a  naturally  strong  constitution,  were  the  means  of 
preserving  my  life ;  but  as  for  the  suit !  Well, 
there,  it  isn't  a  suit ;  its  a  splash  board. 

And  I  did  fancy  that  suit  too.  But  that's  just 
the  way.  I  never  do  get  particularly  fond  of 
anything  in  this  world,  but  what  something 
dreadful  happens  to  it.  I  had  a  tame  rat  when  I 
was  a  boy,  and  I  loved  that  animal  as  only  a  boy 
would  love  an  old  water  rat ;  and,  one  day,  it  feli 


84  ON  THE   WEATHER. 

into  a  large  dish  of  gooseberry-fool  that  was 
standing  to  cool  in  the  kitchen,  and  nobody  knew 
what  had  become  of  the  poor  creature,  until  the 
second  helping. 

I  do  hate  wet  weather,  in  town.  At  least,  it  is 
not  so  much  the  wet,  as  the  mud,  that  I  object 
to.  Somehow  or  other,  I  seem  to  possess  an  irre- 
sistible alluring  power  over  mud.  I  have  only  to 
show  myself  in  the  street  on  a  muddy  day  to  be 
half  smothered  by  it.  It  all  comes  of  being  so 
attractive,  as  the  old  lady  said  when  she  was 
struck  by  lightning.  Other  people  can  go  out  on 
dirty  days,  and  walk  about  for  hours  without  get- 
ting a  speck  upon  themselves;  while,  if  I  go 
across  the  road,  I  come  back  a  perfect  disgrace  to 
be  seen  (as,  in  my  boyish  days,  my  poor  dear 
mother  used  often  to  tell  me).  If  there  were 
only  one  dab  of  mud  to  be  found  in  the  whole  of 
London,  I  am  convinced  I  should  carry  it  off 
from  all  competitors. 

I  wish  I  could  return  the  affection,  but  I  fear 
I  never  shall  be  able  to.  I  have  a  horror  of 
what  they  call  the  "  London  particular."  I  feel 
miserable  and  muggy  all  through  a  dirty  da3% 
and  it  is  quite  a   relief   to   pull   one's  clothes  off 


ON  THE   WEATHER.  85 

and  get  into  bed,  out  of  the  way  of  it  all. 
Everything  goes  wrong  in  wet  weather.  I  don't 
know  how  it  is,  but  there  always  seem  to  me  to 
be  more  people,  and  dogs,  and  perambulators, 
and  cabs,  and  carts,  about  in  wet  weather,  than 
at  any  other  time,  and  they  all  get  in  your  way 
more,  and  everybody  is  so  disagreeable — except 
myself — and  it  does  make  me  so  wild.  And 
then,  too,  somehow,  I  always  find  myself  carry- 
ing more  things  in  wet  weather  than  in  dry ; 
and,  when  you  have  a  bag,  and  three  parcels, 
and  a  newspaper ;  and  it  suddenly  comes  on  to 
rain,  you  can't  open  your  umbrella. 

Which  reminds  me  of  another  phase  of  the 
weather  that  I  can't  bear,  and  that  is  April 
weather  (so-called,  because  it  always  comes  in 
May).  Poets  think  it  very  nice.  As  it  does  not 
know  its  own  mind  five  minutes  together,  they 
liken  it  to  a  woman  ;  and  it  is  supposed  to  be 
very  charming  on  that  account.  I  don't  appre- 
ciate it,  myself.  Such  lightning  change  business 
may  be  all  very  agreeable  in  a  girl.  It  is  no 
doubt  highly  delightful  to  have  to  do  with  a  per- 
son who  grins  one  moment  about  nothing  at  all, 
and    snivels    the    next    for   precisely    the    same 


86  ON  THE  WEATHER. 

cause,  and  who  then  giggles,  and  then  sulks,  and 
who  is  rude,  and  affectionate,  and  bad-tempered, 
and  jolly,  and  boisterous,  and  silent,  and  pas- 
sionate, and  cold,  and  stand-offish,  and  flopping, 
all  in  one  minute  (mind  /  don't  say  this.  It  is 
those  poets.  And  they  are  supposed  to  be  con- 
noisseurs of  this  sort  of  thing);  but  in  the 
weather,  the  disadvantages  of  the  system  are 
more  apparent.  A  woman's  tears  do  not  make 
one  wet,  but  the  rain  does  ;  and  her  coldness 
does  not  lay  the  foundations  of  asthma  and 
rheumatism,  as  the  east  wind  is  apt  to.  I  can 
prepare  for,  and  put  up  with  a  regularly  bad  day, 
but  these  ha'porth-of-all-sorts  kind  of  days  do 
not  suit  me.  It  aggravates  me  to  see  a  bright 
blue  sky  above  me,  when  I  am  walking  along 
wet  through  ;  and  there  is  something  so  exasper- 
ating about  the  way  the  sun  comes  out  smiling 
after  a  drenching  shower,  and  seems  to  say : 
"Lord, love  you,  you  don't  mean  tosay  you're  wet? 
Well,  I  am  surprised.  Why  it  was  only  my  fun." 
They  don't  give  you  time  to  open  or  shut 
your  umbrella  in  an  English  April,  especially  if 
it  is  an  "automaton  "  one — the  umbrella  I  mean, 
not  the  April. 


ON  THE   WEATHER.  87 

I  bought  an  "  automaton  "  once  in  April,  and 
I  did  have  a  time  with  it !  I  wanted  an  um- 
brella, and  I  went  into  a  shop  in  the  Strand,  and 
told  them  so,  and  they  said — 

**Yes  sir ;  what  sort  of  an  umbrella  would  you 
like?" 

I  said  I  should  like  one  that  would  keep  the 
rain  off,  and  that  would  not  allow  itself  to  be  left 
behind  in  a  railway  carriage. 

"Try  an  'automaton,'  "  said  the  shopman. 

"What's  an  'automaton'?"  said  I. 

"Oh,  it's  a  beautiful  arrangement,"  replied  the 
man,  with  a  touch  of  enthusiasm.  "It  opens  and 
shuts  itself." 

I  bought  one,  and  found  that  he  was  quite  cor- 
rect. It  did  open  and  shut  itself.  I  had  no  con- 
trol over  it  whatever.  When  it  began  to  rain, 
which  it  did,  that  season,  every  alternate  five  min- 
utes, I  used  to  try  and  get  the  machine  to  open, 
but  it  would  not  budge ;  and  then  I  used  to  stand 
and  struggle  with  the  wretched  thing,  and  shake 
it,  and  swear  at  it,  while  the  rain  poured  down  in 
torrents.  Then  the  moment  the  rain  ceased,  the 
absurd  thing  would  go  up  suddenly  with  a  jerk, 
and  would  not  come  down  again;  and  I  had  to 


88  ON  THE   WEATHER. 

walk  about  under  a  bright  blue  sky,  with  an 
umbrella  over  my  head,  wishing  that  it  would 
come  on  to  rain  again,  so  that  it  might  not  seem 
that  I  was  insane. 

When  it  did  shut,  it  did  so  unexpectedly,  and 
knocked  one's  hat  off. 

I  don't  know  why  it  should  be  so,  but  it  is  an 
undeniable  fact  that  there  is  nothing  makes  a  man 
look  so  supremely  ridiculous  as  losing  his  hat. 
The  feeling  of  helpless  misery  that  shoots  down 
one's  back  on  suddenly  becoming  aware  that  one's 
head  is  bare  is  among  the  most  bitter  ills  that 
flesh  is  heir  to.  And  then  there  is  the  wild  chase 
after  it,  accompanied  by  an  excitable  small  dog, 
who  thinks  it  is  a  game,  and  in  the  course  of  which 
you  are  certain  to  upset  three  or  four  innocent 
children — to  say  nothing  of  the  irmothers — butt  a 
fat  old  gentleman  on  to  the  top  of  a  perambu- 
lator, and  cannon  off  a  ladies'  seminary  into  the 
arms  of  a  wet  sweep.  After  this,  the  idiotic 
hilarity  of  the  spectators,  and  the  disreputable  ap- 
pearance of  the  hat,  when  recovered,  appear  but 
of  minor  importance. 

Altogether,  what  between  March  winds,  April 
showers,  and  the  entire  absence  of  May  flowers. 


ON  THE   WEATHER.  89 

Spring  is  not  a  success  in  cities.  It  is  all  very 
well  in  the  country,  as  I  have  said,  but  in  towns 
whose  population  is  anything  over  ten  thousand, 
it  most  certainly  ought  to  be  abolished.  In  the 
world's  grim  workshops,  it  is  like  the  children — 
out  of  place.  Neither  show  to  advantage  amidst 
the  dust  and  din.  It  seems  so  sad  to  see  the  lit- 
tle dirt-grimed  brats,  trying  to  play  in  the  noisy 
courts  and  muddy  streets.  Poor  little  uncared- 
for,  unwanted  human  atoms,  they  are  not  chil- 
dren. Children  are  bright-eyed,  chubby,  and  shy. 
These  are  dingy,  screeching  elves,  their  tiny  faces 
seared  and  withered,  their  baby  laughter  cracked 
and  hoarse. 

The  spring  of  life,  and  the  spring  of  the  year, 
were  alike  meant  to  be  cradled  in  the  green  lap  of 
Nature.  To  us,  in  the  town,  spring  brings  but  its 
cold  winds  and  drizzling  rains.  We  must  seek  it 
amongst  the  leafless  woods,  and  the  brambly 
lanes,  on  the  heathy  moors,  and  the  great  still 
hills,  if  we  want  to  feel  its  joyous  breath,  and  hear 
its  silent  voices.  There  is  a  glorious  freshness  in 
the  spring  there.  The  scurrying  clouds,  the  open 
bleakness,  the  rushing  wind,  and  the  clear  bright 
air,  thrill  one   with  vague    energies    and   hopes. 


9°  ON  THE   WEATHER. 

Life,  like  the  landscape  around  us,  seems  bigger, 
and  wider,  and  freer — a  rainbow  road,  leading  to 
unknown  ends.  Through  the  silvery  rents  that 
bar  the  sky,  we  seem  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
great  hope  and  grandeur  that  lies  around  this 
little  throbbing  world,  and  a  breath  of  its  scent 
is  wafted  us  on  the  wings  of  the  wild  March 
wind. 

Strange  thoughts  we  do  not  understand  are  stir- 
ring in  our  hearts.  Voices  are  calling  us  to  some 
great  effort,  to  some  mighty  work.  But  we  do 
not  comprehend  their  meaning  yet,  and  the  hid- 
den echoes  within  us  that  would  reply  are  strugg- 
ling, inarticulate,  and  dumb. 

We  stretch  our  hands  like  children  to  the  light, 
seeking  to  grasp  we  kno>/  not  what.  Our 
thoughts,  like  the  boys'  thoughts  in  the  Danish 
song,  are  very  long,  long  thoughts,  and  very 
vague ;  we  cannot  see  their  end. 

It  must  be  so.  All  thoughts  that  peer  outside 
this  narrow  world  cannot  be  else  than  dim  and 
shapeless.  The  thoughts  that  we  can  clearly 
grasp  are  very  little  thoughts — that  two  and  two 
make  four — that  when  we  are  hungry  it  is  pleas- 
ant to   eat — that  honesty  is  the  best  policy ;  all 


ON  THE   WEATHER.  9 1 

greater  thoughts  are  undefined  and  vast  to  our 
poor  childish  brains.  We  see  but  dimly  through 
the  mists  that  roll  around  our  time-girt  isle  of 
life,  and  only  hear  the  distant  surging  of  the  great 
sea  beyond. 


ON  CA  TS  AND  DOGS. 

\  T /"HAT  I've  suffered  from  them  this  morn- 
^  •  ing  no  tongue  can  tell.  It  began  with 
Gustavus  Adolphus.  Gustavus  Adolphus  (they 
call  him  "  Gusty*"  downstairs  for  short)  is  a  very 
good  sort  of  dog,  when  he  is  in  the  middle  of  a 
large  field,  or  on  a  fairly  extensive  common,  but 
I  won't  have  him  in-doors.  He  means  well,  but 
this  house  is  not  his  size.  He  stretches  himself, 
and  over  go  two  chairs  and  a  what-not.  He 
wags  his  tail,  and  the  room  looks  as  if  a  devas- 
tating army  had  marched  through  it.  He 
breathes  and  it  puts  the  fire  out. 

At  dinner-time,  he  creeps  in  under  the  table, 
lies  there  for  a  while,  and  then  gets  up  suddenly; 
the  first  intimation  we  have  of  his  movements 
being  given  by  the  table,  which  appears  animated 
by  a  desire  to  turn  somersaults.  We  all  clutch 
at  it  frantically,  and  endeavor  to  maintain  it  in  a 
horizontal  position  ;  whereupon  his  struggles,  he 
being  under  the   impression   that    some    wicked 

92 


ON  CATS  AND  DOGS.  93 

conspiracy  is  being  hatched  against  him,  become 
fearful,  and  the  final  picture  presented  is  gener- 
ally that  of  an  over-turned  table  and  a  smashed- 
up  dinner,  sandwiched  between  two  sprawling 
layers  of  infuriated  men  and  women. 

He  came  in  this  morning  in  his  usual  style, 
which  he  appears  to  have  founded  on  that  of  an 
American  cyclone,  and  the  first  thing  he  did  was 
to  sweep  my  coffee  cup  off  the  table  with  his  tail, 
sending  the  contents  full  into  the  middle  of  my 
waistcoat. 

I  rose  from   my  chair,  hurriedly,  and  remark- 

ir^gj    " >"  approached  him    at  a  rapid  rate. 

He  preceded  me  in  the  direction  of  the  door. 
At  the  door,  he  met  Eliza,  coming  in  with  eggs. 
Eliza  observed,  "  Ugh ! "  and  sat  down  on  the 
floor,  the  eggs  took  up  different  positions  about 
the  carpet,  where  they  spread  themselves  out, 
and  Gustavus  Adolphus  left  the  room.  I  called 
after  him,  strongly  advising  him  to  go  straight 
downstairs,  and  not  let  me  see  him  again  for  the 
next  hour  or  so  ;  and  he,  seeming  to  agree  with 
me,  dodged  the  coal-scoop,  and  went ;  while  I  re- 
turned, dried  myself,  and  finished  breakfast.  I 
made  sure  that  he  had  gone  into  the  yard,  but 


94  ON  CATS  AND  DOGS, 

when  I  looked  into  the  passage  ten  minutes 
later,  he  was  sitting  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  I 
ordered  him  down  at  once,  but  he  only  barked 
and  jumped  about,  so  I  went  to  see  what  was  the 
matter. 

It  was  Tittums.  She  was  sitting  on  the  top 
stair  but  one,  and  wouldn't  let  him  pass. 

Tittums  is  our  kitten.  She  is  about  the  size  of 
a  penny  roll.  Her  back  was  up,  and  she  was 
swearing  like  a  medical  student. 

She  does  swear  fearfully.  I  do  a  little  that 
way  myself  sometimes,  but  I  am  a  mere  amateur 
compared  with  her.  To  tell  you  the  truth — 
mind,  this  is  strictly  between  ourselves,  please ; 
I  shouldn't  like  your  wife  to  know  I  said  it,  the 
women  folk  don't  understand  these  things;  but 
between  you  and  me,  you  know,  I  think  it  does  a 
man  good  to  swear.  Swearing  is  the  safety-valve 
through  which  the  bad  temper,  that  might  other- 
wise do  serious  internal  injury  to  his  mental 
mechanism,  escapes  in  harmless  vaporing.  When 
a  man  has  said:  "Bless  you,  my  dear,  sweet  sir. 
What  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars  made  you  so  care- 
less (if  I  may  be  permitted  the  expression)  as  to 
allow  your  light   and    delicate    foot    to    descend 


ON  CATS  AND  DOGS.  ^5 

upon  my  corn  with  so  much  force?  Is  it  that 
you  are  physically  incapable  of  comprehending 
the  direction  in  which  you  are  proceeding?  you 
nice,  clever  young  man — you !"  or  words  to  that 
effect,  he  feels  better.  Swearing  has  the  same 
soothing  effect  upon  our  angry  passions  that 
smashing  the  furniture  or  slamming  the  doors  is 
so  well  known  to  exercise;  added  to  which  it  is 
much  cheaper.  Swearing  clears  a  man  out  like  a 
pen'orth  of  gunpowder  does  the  wash-house  chim- 
ney. An  occasional  explosion  is  good  for  both. 
I  rather  distrust  a  man  who  never  swears,  or  sav- 
agely kicks  the  footstool,  or  pokes  the  fire  with 
unnecessary  violence.  Without  some  outlet,  the 
anger  caused  by  the  ever-occurring  troubles  of  life 
is  apt  to  rankle  and  fester  within.  The  petty 
annoyance,  instead  of  being  thrown  from  us,  sits 
down  beside  us,  and  becomes  a  sorrow,  and  the 
little  offence  is  brooded  over  till,  in  the  hot-bed 
of  rumination,  it  grows  into  a  great  injury,  under 
whose  poisonous  shadow  springs  up  hatred  and 
revenge. 

Swearing  relieves  the  feelings,  that  is  what 
swearing  does.  I  explained  this  to  my  aunt 
on  one  occasion,  but  it  didn't  answer  with   her. 


9^  ON  CATS  AND  DOGS. 

She  said  I  had  no  business  to  have  such 
feelings. 

That  is  what  I  told  Tittums.  I  told  her  she 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself,  brought  up  in  a 
Christian  family  as  she  was,  too.  I  don't  so 
much  mind  hearing  an  old  cat  swear,  but  I  can't 
bear  to  see  a  mere  kitten  give  way  to  it.  It 
seems  sad  in  one  so  young. 

I  put  Tittums  in  my  pocket,  and  returned  to 
my  desk.  I  forgot  her  for  the  moment,  and 
when  I  looked  I  found  that  she  had  squirmed  out 
of  my  pocket  on  to  the  table,  and  was  trying  to 
swallow  the  pen  ;  then  she  put  her  leg  into  the  ink- 
pot and  upset  it;  then  she  licked  her  leg;  then 
she  swore  again — at  me  this  time. 

I  put  her  down  on  the  floor,  and  there  Tim 
began  rowing  with  her.  I  do  wish  Tim  would 
mind  his  own  business.  It  was  no  concern  of  his 
what  she  had  been  doing.  Besides,  he  is  not  a 
saint  himself.  He  is  only  a  two-year-old  fox  ter- 
rier, and  he  interferes  with  everything,  and  gives 
himself  the  airs  of  a  gray-headed  Scotch  collie. 

Tittums'  mother  has  come  in,  and  Tim  has  got 
his  nose  scratched,  for  which  I  am  remarkably 
glad.     I  have  put  them  all  three  out  in  the  pas- 


ON  CATS  AND  DOGS.  97 

sage,  where  they  are  fighting  at  the  present  mo- 
ment. I'm  in  a  mess  with  the  ink,  and  in  a  thun- 
dering bad  temper;  and  if  anything  more  in  the 
cat  or  dog  hne  comes  fooling  about  me  this  morn- 
ing, it  had  better  bring  its  own  funeral  contractor 
with  it. 

Yet,  in  general,  I  like  cats  and  dogs  very  much 
indeed.  What  jolly  chaps  they  are !  They  are 
much  superior  to  human  beings  as  companions. 
They  do  not  quarrel  or  argue  with  you.  They 
never  talk  about  themselves,  but  listen  to  you 
while  you  talk  about  yourself,  and  keep  up  an 
appearance  of  being  interested  in  the  conversa- 
tion. They  never  make  stupid  remarks.  They 
never  observe  to  Miss  Brown  across  a  dinner- 
table,  that  they  always  understood  she  was  very 
sweet  on  Mr.  Jones  (who  has  just  married  Miss 
Robinson).  They  never  mistake  your  wife's 
cousin  for  her  husband,  and  fancy  that  you  are 
the  father-in-law.  And  they  never  ask  a  young 
author  with  fourteen  tragedies,  sixteen  comedies, 
seven  forces,  and  a  couple  of  burlesques  in  his 
desk,  why  he  doesn't  write  a  play. 

They  never  say  unkind  things.  They  never 
tell  us  of  our  faults,  "merely  for  our  own  good." 


98  ON   CATS  AND  DOGS. 

They  do  not,  at  inconvenient  moments,  mildly 
remind  us  of  our  past  follies  and  mistakes.  They 
do  not  say,  "Oh  yes,  a  lot  of  use  you  are,  if  you 
are  ever  really  wanted" — sarcastic  like.  They 
never  inform  us,  like  our  inamoratas  sometimes 
do,  that  we  are  not  nearly  so  nice  as  we  used  to 
be.     We  are  always  the  same  to  them. 

They  are  always  glad  to  see  us.  They  are 
with  us  in  all  our  humors.  They  are  merry  when 
we  are  glad,  sober  when  we  feel  solemn,  and  sad 
when  we  are  sorrowful. 

"Hulloa!  happy,  and  want  a  lark!  Right  you 
are;  I'm  your  man.  Here  I  am,  frisking  round 
you,  leaping,  barking,  pirouetting,  ready  for  any 
amount  of  fun  and  mischief.  Look  at  my  eyes, 
if  you  doubt  me.  What  shall  it  be?  A  romp  in 
the  drawing-room,  and  never  mind  the  furniture, 
or  a  scamper  in  the  fresh,  cool  air,  a  scud  across 
the  fields,  and  down  the  hill,  and  wont  we  let  old 
Gaffer  Goggles's  geese  know  what  time  o'  day  it 
is,  neither.     Whoop!  come  along." 

Or  you'd  like  to  be  quiet  and  think.  Very 
well.  Pussy  can  sit  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  and 
purr,  and  Montmorency  will  curl  himself  up  on 
the  rug,  and  blink  at  the  fire,  yet  keeping  one  eye 


ON  CATS  AND  DOGS,  99 

on  you  the  while,  in  case  you  are  seized  with  any 
sudden  desire  in  the  direction  of  rats. 

And  when  we  bury  our  face  in  our  hands  and 
wish  we  had  never  been  born,  they  don't  sit  up 
very  straight,  and  observe  that  we  have  brought 
it  all  upon  ourselves.  They  don't  even  hope  it 
will  be  a  warning  to  us.  But  they  come  up 
softly;  and  shove  their  heads  against  us.  If  it  is 
a  cat,  she  stands  on  your  shoulder,  rumples  your 
hair,  and  says,  "Lor',  I  am  sorry  for  you  old 
man,"  as  plain  as  words  can  speak;  and  if  it  is  a 
dog,  he  looks  up  at  you  with  his  big,  true  eyes, 
and  says  with  them,  *'Well,  you've  always  got 
me,  you  know.  We'll  go  through  the  world 
together,  and  always  stand  by  each  other,  wont 
we?" 

He  is  very  imprudent,  a  dog  is.  He  never 
makes  it  his  business  to  inquire  whether  you  are 
in  the  right  or  in  the  wrong,  never  bothers  as  to 
whether  you  are  going  up  or  down  upon  life's 
ladder,  never  asks  whether  you  are  rich  or  poor, 
silly  or  wise,  sinner  or  saint.  You  are  his  pal. 
That  is  enough  for  him,  and,  come  luck  or  mis- 
fortune, good  repute  or  bad,  honor  or  shame,  he  is 
going  to  stick  to  you,  to  comfort  you,  guard  you, 


lOO  ON  CATS  AND  DOGS. 

and   give    his  life  for  you,    if  need   be — foolish, 
brainless,  soulless  dog! 

Ah  !  old  staunch  friend,  with  your  deep,  clear 
eyes,  and  bright,  quick  glances,  that  take  in  all 
one  has  to  say  before  one  has  time  to  speak  it, 
do  you  know  you  are  only  an  animal,  and  have 
no  mind?  Do  you  know  that  that  dull-eyed> 
gin-sodden  lout,  leaning  against  the  post  out 
there,  is  immeasurably  your  intellectual  supe- 
rior? Do  you  know  that  every  little-minded, 
selfish  scoundrel,  who  lives  by  cheating  and 
tricking,  who  never  did  a  gentle  deed,  or  said  a 
kind  word,  who  never  had  a  thought  that  was 
not  mean  and  low,  or  a  desire  that  was  not  base, 
whose  every  action  is  a  fraud,  whose  every  utter- 
ance is  a  lie  ;  do  you  know  that  these  crawling 
skulks  (and  there  are  millions  of  them  in  the 
world),  do  you  know  they  are  all  as  much 
superior  to  you  as  the  sun  is  superior  to  rush- 
light, you  honorable,  brave-hearted,  unselfish 
brute  ?  They  are  MEN,  you  know,  and  MEN  are 
the  greatest,  and  noblest,  and  wisest,  and  best 
Beings  in  the  whole  vast  eternal  Universe.  Any 
man  will  tell  you  that. 

Yes,   poor  doggie,  you   are   very  stupid,  very 


ON   CATS  AND  DOGS.  lOI 

stupid  indeed,  compared  with  us  clever  men,  who 
understand  all  about  politics  and  philosophy, 
and  who  know  everything  in  short,  except  what 
we  are,  and  where  we  came  from,  and  whither  we 
are  going,  and  what  everything  outside  this  tiny 
world  and  most  things  in  it  are. 

Never  mind,  though,  pussy  and  doggie,  we 
like  you  both  all  the  better  for  your  being 
stupid.  We  all  like  stupid  things.  Men  can't 
bear  clever  women,  and  a  woman's  ideal  man  is 
some  one  she  can  call  a  "dear  old  stupid."  It 
is  so  pleasant  to  come  across  people  more  stupid 
than  ourselves.  We  love  them  at  once  for  being 
so.  The  world  must  be  rather  a  rough  place  for 
clever  people.  Ordinary  folk  dislike  them,  and 
as  for  themselves  they  hate  each  other  most 
cordially. 

But  there,  the  clever  people  are  such  a  very 
insignificant  minority  that  it  really  doesn't  much 
matter  if  they  are  unhappy.  So  long  as  the  fool- 
ish people  can  be  made  comfortable,  the  world, 
as  a  whole,  will  get  on  tolerably  well. 

Cats  have  the  credit  of  being  more  worldly 
wise  than  dogs — of  looking  more  after  their  own 
interests,  and  being  less  blindly  devoted  to  those 


I02  ON  CATS  AND  DOGS. 

of  their  friends.  And  we  men  and  women  are 
naturally  shocked  at  such  selfishness.  Cats  cer- 
tainly do  love  a  family  that  has  a  carpet  in  the 
kitchen  more  than  a  family  that  has  not ;  and  if 
there  are  many  children  about,  they  prefer  to 
spend  their  leisure  time  next  door.  But,  taken 
altogether,  cats  are  libelled.  Make  a  friend  of 
one,  and  she  will  stick  to  you  through  thick  and 
thin.  All  the  cats  that  I  have  had  have  been 
most  firm  comrades.  I  had  a  cat  once  that  used 
to  follow  me  about  everywhere,  until  it  even  got 
quite  embarrassing,  and  I  had  to  beg  her,  as  a 
personal  favor,  not  to  accompany  me  any  further 
down  the  High  Street.  She  used  to  sit  up  for 
me  when  I  was  late  home,  and  meet  me  in  the 
passage.  It  made  me  feel  quite  like  a  married 
man,  except  that  she  never  asked  where  I  had 
been,  and  then  didn't  believe  me  when  I  told  her. 
Another  cat  I  had  used  to  get  drunk  regularly 
every  day.  She  would  hang  about  for  hours 
outside  the  cellar  door  for  the  purpose  of  sneak- 
ing in  on  the  first  opportunity,  and  lapping  up 
the  drippings  from  the  beer  cask.  I  do  not  men- 
tion this  habit  of  hers  in  praise  of  the  species, 
but  merely  to  show  how  almost  human  some  of 


ON  CATS  AND  DOGS.  I03 

them  are.  If  the  transmigration  of  souls  is  a  fact, 
this  animal  was  certainly  qualifying  most  rapidly 
for  a  Christian,  for  her  vanity  was  only  second  to 
her  love  of  drink.  Whenever  she  caught  a  par- 
ticularly big  rat,  she  would  bring  it  up  into  the 
room  where  we  were  all  sitting,  lay  the  corpse 
down  in  the  midst  of  us,  and  wait  to  be  praised. 
Lord  !  how  the  girls  used  to  scream. 

Poor  rats  !  They  seem  only  to  exist  so  that 
cats  and  dogs  may  gain  credit  for  killing  them, 
and  chemists  make  a  fortune  by  inventing  speci- 
alities in  poison  for  their  destruction.  And  yet 
there  is  something  fascinating  about  them. 
There  is  a  weirdness  and  uncanniness  attaching 
to  them.  They  are  so  cunning  and  strong,  so 
terrible  in  their  numbers,  so  cruel,  so  secret. 
They  swarm  in  deserted  houses,  where  the  broken 
casements  hang  rotting  to  the  crumbling  walls, 
and  the  doors  swing  creaking  on  their  rusty 
hinges.  They  know  the  sinking  ship,  and  leave 
her,  no  one  knows  how  or  whither.  They  whis- 
per to  each  other  in  their  hiding-places,  how  a 
doom  will  fall  upon  the  hall,  and  the  great  name 
die  forgotten.  They  do  fearful  deeds  in  ghastly 
charnel-houses. 


I04  ON  CATS  AND  DOGS. 

No  tale  of  horror  is  complete  without  the  rats. 
In  stories  of  ghosts  and  murderers,  they  scamper 
through  the  echoing  rooms,  and  the  gnawing  of 
their  teeth  is  heard  behind  the  wainscot,  and  their 
gleaming  eyes  peer  through  the  holes  in  the 
worm-eaten  tapestry,  and  they  scream  in  shrill, 
unearthly  notes  in  the  dead  of  night,  while  the 
moaning  wind  sweeps,  sobbing,  round  the  ruined 
turret  towers,  and  passes  wailing  like  a  woman 
through  the  chambers  bare  and  tenantless. 

And  dying  prisoners,  in  their  loathsome  dun- 
geons, see,  through  the  horrid  gloom,  their  small 
red  eyes,  like  glittering  coals,  hear,  in  the  death- 
like silence,  the  rush  of  their  claw-like  feet,  and 
start  up  shrieking  in  the  darkness,  and  watch 
through  the  awful  night. 

I  love  to  read  tales  about  rats.  They  make 
my  flesh  creep  so.  I  like  that  tale  of  Bishop 
Hatto  and  the  rats.  The  wicked  Bishop,  you 
know,  had  ever  so  much  corn,  stored  in  his  gran- 
aries, and  would  not  let  the  starving  people  touch 
it,  but,  when  they  prayed  to  him  for  food,  gath- 
ered them  together  in  his  barn,  and  then  shutting 
the  doors  on  them,  set  fire  to  the  place  and 
burned  them  all  to  death.     But  next  day  there 


ON  CATS  AND  DOGS.  105 

came  thousands  upon  thousands  of  rats,  sent  to 
do  judgment  on  him.  Then  Bishop  Hatto  fled 
to  his  strong  tower  that  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  Rhine,  and  barred  himself  in,  and  fancied  he 
was  safe.  Bnt  the  rats !  they  swam  the  river, 
they  gnawed  their  way  through  the  thick  stone 
walls,  and  ate  him  alive  where  he  sat. 

**  They  have  whetted  their  teeth  against  the  stones, 
And  now  they  pick  the  Bishop's  bones  ; 
They  gnawed  the  flesh  from  every  limb. 
For  they  were  sent  to  do  judgment  on  him.'* 

Oh,  it's  a  lovely  tale. 

Then  there  is  the  story  of  the  Pied  Piper  ot 
Hamelin,  how  first  he  piped  the  rats  away,  and 
afterward,  when  the  Mayor  broke  faith  with  him, 
drew  all  the  children  along  with  him,  and  went 
into  the  mountain.  What  a  curious  old  legend 
that  is !  I  wonder  what  it  means,  or  has  it  any 
meaning  at  all  ?  There  seems  something  strange 
and  deep  lying  hid  beneath  the  rippling  rhyme. 
It  haunts  me,  that  picture  of  the  quaint,  mysteri- 
ous old  piper,  piping  through  Hamelin's  narrow 
streets,  and  the  children  following  with  dancing 
feet  and  thoughtful,  eager  faces.  The  old  folks 
try  to  stay  them,  but  the  children  pay  no  heed. 


Io6  ON  CATS  AND  DOGS. 

They  hear  the  weird,  witched  music,  and  must 
follow.  The  games  are  left  unfinished,  and  the 
playthings  drop  from  their  careless  hands.  They 
know  not  whither  they  are  hastening.  The 
mystic  music  calls  to  them,  and  they  follow, 
heedless  and  unasking  where.  It  stirs  and  vi- 
brates in  their  hearts,  and  other  sounds  grow 
faint.  So  they  wander  through  Pied  Piper  street 
away  from  Hamelin  town. 

I  get  thinking  sometimes  if  the  Pied  Piper  is 
really  dead,  or  if  he  may  not  still  be  roaming  up 
and  down  our  streets  and  lanes,  but  playing  now 
so  softly  that  only  the  children  hear  him.  Why 
do  the  little  faces  look  so  grave  and  solemn  when 
they  pause  awhile  from  romping,  and  stand,  deep 
wrapt,  with  straining  eyes  ?  They  only  shake 
their  curly  heads,  and  dart  back  laughing  to  their 
playmates  when  we  question  them.  But  I  fancy 
myself  they  have  been  listening  to  the  magic 
music  of  the  old  Pied  Piper,  and,  perhaps,  with 
those  bright  eyes  of  theirs,  have  even  seen  his 
odd,  fantastic  figure,  gliding  unnoticed,  through 
the  whirl  and  throng. 

Even  we  grown-up  children  hear  his  piping  now 
and  then.     But  the  yearning  notes  are  very  far 


ON  CATS  AND  BOGS.  107 

away,  and  the  noisy,  blustering  world  is  always 
bellowing  so  loud,  it  drowns  the  dream-like 
melody.  One  day  the  sweet  sad  strains  will 
sound  out  full  and  clear,  and  then  we  too  shall, 
like  the  little  children,  throw  our  playthings  all 
aside,  and  follow.  The  loving  hands  will  be 
stretched  out  to  stay  us,  and  the  voices  we  have 
learnt  to  listen  for  will  cry  to  us  to  stop.  But  we 
shall  push  the  fond  arms  gently  back,  and  pass 
out  through  the  sorrowing  house  and  through  the 
open  door.  For  the  wild  strange  music  will  be 
ringing  in  our  hearts,  and  we  shall  know  the  mean- 
ing of  its  song  by  then. 

I  wish  people  could  love  animals  without  get- 
ting maudlin  over  them,  as  so  many  do. 
Women  are  the  most  hardened  offenders  in  such 
respects,  but  even  our  intellectual  sex  often  de- 
grade pets  into  nuisances  by  absurd  idolatry. 
There  are  the  gushing  young  ladies  who,  having 
read  David  Copperfield,  have  thereupon  sought 
out  a  small,  long  haired  dog  of  nondescript  breed, 
possessed  of  an  irritating  habit  of  criticising  a 
man's  trousers,  and  of  finally  commenting  upon 
the  same  by  a  sniff,  indicative  of  contempt  and 
disgust.     They  talk  sweet  girlish  prattle  to  this 


Io8  ON  CATS  AND  DOGS. 

animal  (when  there  is  any  one  near  enough  to 
overhear  them),  and  they  kiss  its  nose,  and  put  its 
unwashed  head  up  against  their  cheek  in  a  most 
touching  manner;  though  I  have  noticed  that 
these  caresses  are  principally  performed  when 
there  are  young  men  hanging  about. 

Then  there  are  the  old  ladies  who  worship  a  fat 
poodle,  scant  of  breath  and  full  of  fleas.  I  knew  a 
couple  of  elderly  spinsters  once  who  had  a  sort  of 
German  sausage  on  legs  which  they  called  a  dog 
between  them.  They  used  to  wash  its  face  with 
warm  water  every  morning.  It  had  a  mutton  cut- 
let regularly  for  breakfast ;  and  on  Sundays,  when 
one  of  the  ladies  went  to  church,  the  other  always 
stopped  at  home  to  keep  the  dog  company. 

There  are  many  families  where  the  whole  inter- 
est of  life  is  centered  upon  the  dog.  Cats,  by  the 
way,  rarely  suffer  from  excess  of  adulation.  A 
cat  possesses  a  very  fair  sense  of  the  ridiculous, 
and  will  put  her  paw  down  kindly  but  firmly  upon 
any  nonsense  of  this  kind.  Dogs,  however,  seem 
to  like  it.  They  encourage  their  owners  in  the 
tomfoolery,  and  the  consequence  is,  that  in  the 
circles  I  am  speaking  of,  what  "dear  Fido"  has 
done,  docs  do,  will  do,  won't  do,  can  do,  can't  do, 


ON  CATS  AND  DOGS.  109 

was  doing,  is  doing,  is  going  to  do,  shall  do,  shant 
do,  and  is  about  to  be  going  to  have  done  is  the 
continual  theme  of  discussion  from  tTiorning  till 
night. 

All  the  conversation,  consisting,  as  it  does,  of 
the  very  dregs  of  imbecility,  is  addressed  to  this 
confounded  animal.  The  family  sit  in  a  row  all 
day  long,  watching  him,  commenting  upon  his 
actions,  telling  each  other  anecdotes  about  him, 
recalling  his  virtues,  and  remembering  with  tears 
how  one  day  they  lost  him  for  two  whole  hours, 
on  which  occasion  he  was  brought  home  in  a  most 
brutal  manner  by  the  butcher  boy,  who  had  been 
met  carrying  him  by  the  scruff  of  his  neck  with  one 
hand,  while  soundly  cuffing  his  head  with  the  other. 

After  recovering  from  these  bitter  recollections, 
they  vie  with  each  other  in  bursts  of  admiration 
for  the  brute,  until  some  more  than  usually  en- 
thusiastic member,  unable  any  longer  to  control 
his  feelings,  swoops  down  upon  the  unhappy 
quadruped,  in  a  frenzy  of  affection,  clutches  it  to 
his  heart,  and  slobbers  over  it.  Whereupon,  the 
others,  mad  with  envy,  rise  up,  and,  seizing  as 
much  of  the  dog  as  the  greed  of  the  first  one  has 
left  to  them,  murmur  praise  and  devotion. 


no  ON  CATS  AND   DOGS. 

Among  these  people,  everything  is  done  through 
the  dog.  If  you  want  to  make  love  to  the  eldest 
daughter,  or  get  the  old  man  to  lend  you  the  gar- 
den roller,  or  the  mother  to  subscribe  to  the  So- 
ciety for  the  Suppression  of  Solo-coronet  Players 
in  Theatrical  Orchestras  (its'  a  pity  there  isn't  one, 
anyhow),  you  have  to  begin  with  the  dog.  You 
must  gain  its  approbation  before  they  will  even 
listen  to  you,  and  if,  as  is  highly  probable,  the 
animal,  whose  frank,  doggy  nature  has  been 
warped  by  the  unnatural  treatment  he  has  re- 
ceived, responds  to  your  overtures  of  friendship 
by  viciously  snapping  at  you,  your  cause  is  lost 
for  ever. 

**If  Fido  won't  take  to  any  one,"  the  father  has 
thoughtfully  remarked  beforehand,  "I  say  that 
man  is  not  to  be  trused.  You  know,  Maria,  how 
often  I  have  said  that.  Ah !  he  knows,  bless 
him." 

Drat  him ! 

And  to  think  that  the  surly  brute  was  once  an 
innocent  puppy,  all  legs  and  head,  full  of  fun  and 
play,  and  burning  with  ambition  to  become  a  big, 
good  dog,  and  bark  like  mother. 

Ah  me!  life  sadly  changes  us  all.     The  world 


ON  CAT:^  AND  DOGS.  Ill 

seems  a  vast  horrible  grinding  machine,  into  which 
what  is  fresh  and  bright  and  pure  is  pushed  at 
one  end,  to  come  out  old  and  crabbed  and 
wrinkled  at  the  other. 

Look  even  at  Pussy  Sobersides,  with  her  dull, 
sleepy  glance,  her  grave  slow  walk,  and  dignified, 
prudish  airs ;  who  could  ever  think  that  once  she 
was  the  blue-eyed,  whirling,  scampering,  head- 
over-heels,  mad  little  firework  that  we  call  a 
kitten. 

What  marvelous  vitality  a  kitten  has.  It  is 
really  something  very  beautiful  the  way  life  bub- 
bles over  in  the  little  creatures.  They  rush 
about,  and  mew,  and  spring  ;  dance  on  their  hind 
legs,  embrace  everything  with  their  front  ones, 
roll  over  and  over  and  over,  lie  on  their  backs 
and  kick.  They  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
themselves,  they  are  so  full  of  life. 

Can  you  remember,  reader,  when  you  and  I  felt 
something  of  the  same  sort  of  thing?  Can  you 
remember  those  glorious  days  of  fresh  young 
manhood;  how,  when  coming  home  along  the 
moonlit  road,  we  felt  too  full  of  life  for  sober 
walking,  and  had  to  spring  and  skip,  and  wave 
our  arms,  and  shout,  till  belated  farmers'  wives 


112  ON  CATS  AND  DOGS. 

thought — and  with  good  reason,  too — that  we 
were  mad,  and  kept  close  to  the  hedge,  while  we 
stood  and  laughed  aloud  to  see  them  scuttle  off 
so  fast,  and  made  their  blood  run  cold  with  a 
wild  parting  whoop ;  and  the  tears  came,  we 
knew  not  why.  Oh,  that  magnificent  young 
Life  !  that  crowned  us  kings  of  the  earth  ;  that 
rushed  through  every  tingling  vein,  till  we 
seemed  to  walk  on  air ;  that  thrilled  through  our 
throbbing  brains,  and  told  us  to  go  forth  and 
conquer  the  whole  world ;  that  welled  up  in  our 
young  hearts,  till  we  longed  to  stretch  out  our 
arms  and  gather  all  the  toiling  men  and  women 
and  the  little  children  to  our  breast,  and  love 
them  all — all.  Ah  !  they  were  grand  days,  those 
deep,  full  days,  when  our  coming  life,  like  an  un- 
seen organ,  pealed  strange,  yearnful  music  in  our 
ears,  and  our  young  blood  cried  out  like  a  war- 
horse  for  the  battle.  Ah,  our  pulse  beats  slow 
and  steady  now,  and  our  old  joints  are  rheu- 
matic, and  we  love  our  easy  chair  and  pipe,  and 
sneer  at  boys'  enthusiasm.  But,  oh  !  for  one 
brief  moment  of  that  god-like  life  again. 


ON  BEING  SHY. 

A  LL  great  literary  men  are  shy.  I  am  myself, 
^  ■*•  though  I  am  told  it  is  hardly  noticeable. 

I  am  glad  it  is  not.  It  used  to  be  extremely 
prominent  at  one  time,  and  was  the  cause  of 
much  misery  to  myself,  and  discomfort  to  every 
one  about  me — my  lady  friends,  especially,  com- 
plained most  bitterly  about  it. 

A  shy  man's  lot  is  not  a  happy  one.  The  men 
dislike  him,  the  women  despise  him,  and  he  dis- 
likes and  despises  himself.  Use  brings  him  no 
relief,  and  there  is  no  cure  for  him  except  time ; 
though  I  once  came  across  a  delicious  receipt  for 
overcoming  the  misfortune.  It  appeared  among 
the  "  answers  to  correspondents "  in  a  small, 
weekly  journal,  and  ran  as  follows — I  have  never 
forgotten  it  : — "  Adopt  an  easy  and  pleasing 
manner,  especially  toward  ladies." 

Poor  wretch  !  I  can  imagine  the  grin  with 
which  he  must  have  read  that  advice.  *' Adopt 
an  easy  and  pleasing  manner,  especially  toward 
"3 


114  ON  BEING  SHY. 

ladies,"  forsooth!  Don't  you  adopt  anything 
of  the  kind,  my  dear  young  shy  friend.  Your  at- 
tempt to  put  on  any  other  disposition  than  your 
own  will  infallibly  result  in  your  becoming  ridic- 
ulously gushing  and  offensively  familiar.  Be 
your  own  natural  self,  and  then  you  will  only  be 
thought  to  be  surly  and  stupid. 

The  shy  man  does  have  some  slight  revenge 
upon  society  for  the  torture  it  inflicts  upon  him. 
He  is  able,  to  a  certain  extent,  to  communicate 
his  misery.  He  frightens  other  people  as  much 
as  they  frighten  him.  He  acts  like  a  damper 
upon  the  whole  room,  and  the  most  jovial  spirits 
become,  in  his  presence,  depressed  and  nervous. 

This  is  a  good  deal  brought  about  by  misun- 
derstanding. Many  people  mistake  the  shy  man's 
timidity  for  overbearing  arrogance,  and  are  awed 
and  insulted  by  it.  His  awkwardness  is  resented 
as  insolent  carelessness,  and  when,  terror-stricken 
at  the  first  word  addressed  to  him,  the  blood 
rushes  to  his  head,  and  the  power  of  speech  com- 
pletely fails  him,  he  is  regarded  as  an  awful  ex^ 
ample  of  the  evil  effects  of  giving  way  to  pas- 
sion. 

But,  indeed,  to   be   misunderstood   is   the   shy 


ON  BEING  SHY.  115 

man's  fate  on  every  occasion ;  and,  whatever  im- 
pression he  endeavors  to  create,  he  is  sure  to 
convey  its  opposite.  When  he  makes  a  joke,  it 
is  looked  upon  as  a  pretended  relation  of  fact, 
and  his  want  of  veracity  much  condemned.  His 
sarcasm  is  accepted  as  his  literal  opinion,  and 
gains  for  him  the  reputation  of  being  an  ass ; 
while  if,  on  the  other  hand,  wishing  to  ingratiate 
himself,  he  ventures  upon  a  little  bit  of  flattery, 
it  is  taken  for  satire,  and  he  is  hated  ever  after- 
wards. 

These,  and  the  rest  of  a  shy  man's  troubles,  are 
always  very  amusing,  to  other  people;  and  have 
afforded  material  for  comic  writing  from  time 
immemorial.  But  if  we  look  a  little  deeper,  we 
shall  find  there  is  a  pathetic,  one  might  almost 
say  a  tragic,  side  to  the  picture.  A  shy  man 
means  a  lonely  man — a  man  cut  off  from  all  com- 
panionship, all  sociability.  He  moves  about  the 
world,  but  does  not  mix  with  it.  Between  him 
and  his  fellow-men  there  runs  ever  an  impass- 
able barrier — a  strong,  invisible  wall,  that  trying 
in  vain  to  scale,  he  but  bruises  himself  against. 
He  sees  the  pleasant  faces  and  hears  the  pleasant 
voices  on  the  other  side,  but  he  cannot  stretch  his 


Il6  ON  BEING  SHY. 

hand  across  to  grasp  another  hand.  He  stands 
watching  the  merry  groups,  and  he  longs  to  speak, 
and  to  claim  kindred  with  them.  But  they  pass 
him  by,  chatting  gaily  to  one  another,  and  he  can- 
not stay  them.  He  tries  to  reach  them,  but  his 
prison  walls  move  with  him,  and  hem  him  in  on 
every  side.  In  the  busy  street,  in  the  crowded 
room,  in  the  grind  of  work,  in  the  whirl  of  pleas- 
ure, amidst  the  many  or  amidst  the  few ;  where- 
ever  men  congregate  together,  wherever  the 
music  of  human  speech  is  heard,  and  human 
thought  is  flashed  from  human  eyes,  there, 
shunned  and  solitary,  the  shy  man,  like  a  leper, 
stands  apart.  His  soul  is  full  of  love  and  long- 
ing, but  the  world  knows  it  not.  The  iron  mask 
of  shyness  is  riveted  before  his  face,  and  the  man 
beneath  is  never  seen.  Genial  words  and  hearty 
greetings  are  ever  rising  to  his  lips,  but  they  die 
away  in  unheard  whispers  behind  the  steel 
clamps.  His  heart  aches  for  the  weary  brother, 
but  his  sympathy  is  dumb.  Contempt  and  indig- 
nation against  wrong  choke  up  his  throat,  and, 
finding  no  safety  valve,  when  in  passionate  utter- 
ance they  may  burst  forth,  they  only  turn  in 
again  and  harni  him.      7\ll  the  hate,  and    scorn, 


ON  BEING   SHY.  1 17 

and  love  of  a  deep  nature,  such  as  the  shy  man  is 
ever  cursed  by,  fester  and  corrupt  within,  instead 
of  spending  themselves  abroad,  and  sour  him  into 
a  misanthrope  and  cynic. 

Yes,  shy  men,  like  ugly  women,  have  a  bad 
time  of  it  in  this  world,  to  go  through  which  with 
any  comfort  needs  the  hide  of  a  rhinoceros. 
Thick  skin  is,  indeed,  our  moral  clothes,  and  with- 
out it,  we  are  not  fit  to  be  seen  about  in  civilized 
society.  A  poor  gasping,  blushing  creature,  with 
trembling  knees  and  twitching  hands,  is  a  painful 
sight  to  every  one,  and  if  it  cannot  cure  itself,  the 
sooner  it  goes  and  hangs  itself  the  better. 

The  disease  can  be  cured.  For  the  comfort  of 
the  shy,  I  can  assure  them  of  that  from  personal 
experience.  I  do  not  like  speaking  about  myself, 
as  may  have  been  noticed,  but  in  the  cause  of 
humanity  I,  on  this  occasion,  will  do  so,  and  will 
confess  that  at  one  time  I  was,  as  the  young  man 
in  the  Bab  Ballad  says,  "the  shyest  of  the  shy,'* 
and  "whenever  I  was  introduced  to  any  pretty 
maid,  my  knees  they  knocked  together  just  as  if 
I  was  afraid."  Now,  I  would — nay,  have — on  this 
very  day  before  yesterday  I  did  the  deed.  Alone 
and  entirely  by  myself  (as  the  schoolboy  said  in 


Tl8  ON  BEING  SHY. 

translating  the  Belliini  Gallicum)  did  I  beard  a 
railway  refreshment-room  young  lady  in  her  own 
lair.  I  rebuked  her  in  terms  of  mingled  bitter- 
ness and  sorrow  for  her  callousness  and  want 
of  condescension.  I  insisted,  courteously  but 
firmly,  on  being  accorded  that  deference  and 
attention  that  was  the  right  of  the  traveling 
Briton ;  and,  at  the  end,  /  looked  her  full  in  the 
face.     Need  I  say  more? 

True,  that  immediately  after  doing  so,  I  left 
the  room  with  what  may  possibly  have  appeared 
to  be  precipitation,  and  without  waiting  for  any 
refreshment.  But  that  was  because  I  had 
changed  my  mind,  not  because  I  was  frightened, 
you  understand. 

One  consolation  that  shy  folk  can  take  unto 
themselves  is  that  shyness  is  certainly  no  sign  of 
stupidity.  It  is  easy  enough  for  bull-headed 
clowns  to  sneer  at  nerves,  but  the  highest  natures 
are  not  necessarily  those  containing  the  greatest 
amount  of  moral  brass.  The  horse  is  not  an  infe- 
rior animal  to  the  cock-sparrow,  nor  the  deer  of 
the  forest  to  the  pig.  Shyness  simply  means 
extreme  sensibility,  and  has  nothing  whatever  to 
do  with  self-consciousness  or  with  conceit,  though 


ON  BEING  SHY.  1 19 

its  relationship  to  both  is  continually  insisted 
upon  by  the  poll-parrot  school  of  philosophy. 

Conceit,  indeed,  is  the  quickest  cure  for  it. 
When  it  once  begins  to  dawn  upon  you  that  you 
are  a  good  deal  cleverer  than  any  one  else  in  this 
world,  bashfulness  becomes  shocked,  and  leaves 
you.  When  you  can  look  round  a  roomful  of 
people,  and  think  that  each  one  is  a  mere  child  in 
intellect  compared  with  yourself,  you  feel  no 
more  shy  of  them  than  you  would  of  a  select 
company  of  mapgies  or  orang-outangs. 

Conceit  is  the  finest  armor  that  a  man  can 
wear.  Upon  its  smooth,  impenetrable  surface 
the  puny  dagger-thrusts  of  spite  and  envy  glance 
harmlessly  aside.  Without  that  breast-plate,  the 
sword  of  talent  cannot  force  its  way  through  the 
battle  of  life,  for  blows  have  to  be  borne  as  well 
as  dealt.  I  do  not,  of  course,  speak  of  the  con- 
ceit that  displays  itself  in  an  elevated  nose  and  a 
falsetto  voice.  That  is  not  real  conceit,  that  is 
only  playing  at  being  conceited ;  like  children 
play  at  being  kings  and  queens,  and  go  strutting 
about  with  feathers  and  long  trains.  Genuine 
conceit  does  not  make  a  man  objectionable.  On 
the  contrary,  it  tends  to  make  him  genial,  kind- 


J20  ON  BEING  SHY, 

hearted,  and  simple.  He  has  no  need  of  affecta- 
tion, he  is  far  too  well  satisfied  with  his  own  char- 
acter; and  his  pride  is  too  deep-seated  to  appear 
at  all  on  the  outside.  Careless  alike  of  praise  or 
blame,  he  can  afford  to  be  truthful.  Too  far,  in 
fancy,  above  the  rest  of  mankind  to  trouble  about 
their  petty  distinctions,  he  is  equally  at  home 
with  duke  or  costermonger.  And,  valuing  no 
one's  standard  but  his  own,  he  is  never  tempted 
to  practise  that  miserable  pretence  that  less  self- 
reliant  people  offer  up  as  an  hourly  sacrifice  to 
the  god  of  their  neighbor's  opinion. 

The  shy  man,  on  the  other  hand,  is  humble — 
modest  of  his  own  judgment,  and  over-anxious 
concerning  that  of  others.  But  this,  in  the  case 
of  a  young  man,  is  surely  right  enough.  His 
character  is  unformed.  It  is  slowly  evolving 
itself  out  of  a  chaos  of  doubt  and  disbelief. 
Before  the  growing  insight  and  experience,  the 
diffidence  recedes.  A  man  rarely  carries  his 
shyness  past  the  hobbledehoy  period.  Even  if 
his  own  inward  strength  does  not  throw  it  off,  the 
rubbings  of  the  world  generally  smooth  it  down. 
You  scarcely  ever  meet  a  really  shy  i)ian — 
except    in  novels    or  on    the    stage,   where,   by- 


ON  BEING   SHY.  12 1 

the-bye,  he  is   much    admired,  especially  by  the 
women. 

There,  in  that  supernatural  land,  he  appears  as 
a  fair-haired  and  saint-like  young  man — fair  hair 
and  goodness  always  go  together  on  the  stage. 
No  respectable  audience  would  believe  in  one 
without  the  other.  I  knew  an  actor  who  mislaid 
his  wig  once,  and  had  to  rush  on  to  play  the  hero 
in  his  own  hair,  which  was  jet  black,  and  the 
gallery  howled  at  all  his  noble  sentiments  under 
the  impression  that  he  was  the  villain.  He — the 
shy  young  man — loves  the  heroine,  oh  so 
devotedly  (but  only  in  asides,  for  he  dare  not  tell 
her  of  it),  and  he  is  so  noble  and  unselfish,  and 
speaks  in  such  a  low  voice,  and  is  so  good  to  his 
mother;  and  the  bad  people  in  the  play,  they 
laugh  at  him,  and  jeer  at  him,  but  he  takes  it  all 
so  gently,  and,  in  the  end,  it  transpires  that  he  is 
such  a  clever  man,  though  nobody  knew  it,  and 
then  the  heroine  tells  him  she  loves  him,  and  he 
is  so  surprised,  and  oh,  so  happy  \  and  everybody 
loves  him,  and  asks  him  to  forgive  them,  which 
he  does  in  a  few  well-chosen  and  sarcastic  words, 
and  blesses  them  ;  and  he  seems  to  have  gener- 
ally such  a  good  time  of  it  that  all  the  young 


122  ON  BEING  SHY. 

fellows  who  are  not  shy  long  to  be  shy.  But  the 
really  shy  man  knows  better.  He  knows  that  it 
is  not  quite  so  pleasant  in  reality.  He  is  not 
quite  so  interesting  there  as  in  the  fiction.  He  is 
a  little  more  clumsy  and  stupid,  and  a  little  less 
devoted  and  gentle,  and  his  hair  is  much  darker, 
which,  taken  altogether,  considerably  alters  the 
aspect  of  the  case. 

The  point  where  he  does  resemble  his  ideal  is 
in  his  faithfulness.  I  am  fully  prepared  to  allow 
the  shy  young  man  that  virtue  :  he  is  constant  in 
his  love.  But  the  reason  is  not  far  to  seek.  The 
fact  is  it  exhausts  all  his  stock  of  courage  to  look 
one  woman  in  the  face,  and  it  would  be  simply 
impossible  for  him  to  go  through  the  ordeal  with 
a  second.  He  stands  in  far  too  much  dread  of 
the  whole  female  sex  to  want  to  go  gadding 
about  with  many  of  them.  One  is  quite  enough 
for  him. 

Now,  it  is  different  with  the  young  man  who  is 
not  shy.  He  has  temptations  which  his  bashful 
brother  never  encounters.  He  looks  around,  and 
everywhere  sees  roguish  eyes  and  laughing  lips. 
What  more  natural  than  that  amidst  so  many 
roguish  eyes  and  laughing  lips  he  should  become 


ON  BEING  SHY.  123 

confused,  and,  forgetting  for  the  moment  which 
particular  pair  of  roguish  eyes  and  laughing  lips 
it  is  that  he  belongs  to,  go  off  making  love  to 
the  wrong  set.  The  shy  man,  who  never  looks 
at  anything  but  his  own  boots,  sees  not,  and  is 
not  tempted.     Happy  shy  man  ! 

Not  but  what  the  shy  man  himself  would 
much  rather  not  be  happy  in  that  way.  He 
longs  to  *'  go  it "  with  the  others,  and  curses 
himself  every  day  for  not  being  able  to.  He 
will,  now  and  again,  screwing  up  his  courage  by 
a  tremendous  effort,  plunge  into  roguishness. 
But  it  is  always  a  terrible  fiasco,  and  after  one  or 
two  feeble  flounders,  he  crawls  out  again,  limp 
and  pitiable. 

I  say  "  pitiable,"  though  I  am  afraid  he  never 
is  pitied.  There  are  certain  misfortunes  which, 
while  inflicting  a  vast  amount  of  suffering  upon 
their  victims,  gain  for  them  no  sympathy. 
Losing  an  umbrella,  falling  in  love,  toothache, 
black  eyes,  and  having  your  hat  sat  upon,  may 
be  mentioned  as  a  few  examples,  but  the  chief  of 
them  all  is  shyness.  The  shy  man  is  regarded  as 
an  animate  joke.     His  tortures  are  the  sport  of 


124  ON  BEING  SHY. 

the  drawing-room  arena,  and  are  pointed  out  and 
discussed  with  much  gusto. 

**  Look,"  cry  his  tittering  audience  to  each 
other,  "  he's  blushing  !  " 

"Just  watch  his  legs,"  says  one. 

"Do  you  notice  how  he  is  sitting?"  adds 
another:  "  right  on  the  edge  of  the  chair." 

"Seems  to  have  plenty  of  color,"  sneers  a 
military-looking  gentleman. 

"  Pity  he's  got  so  many  hands,"  murmurs  an 
elderly  lady,  with  her  own  calmly  folded  on  her 
lap.     "They  quite  confuse  him." 

"  A  yard  or  two  off  his  feet  wouldn't  be  a  dis- 
advantage," chimes  in  the  comic  man,  "  especi- 
ally as  he  seems  so  anxious   to  hide  them." 

And  then  another  suggests  that  with  such  a 
voice  he  ought  to  have  been  a  sea  captain. 
Some  draw  attention  to  the  desperate  way  in 
which  he  is  grasping  his  hat.  Some  comment 
upon  his  limited  powers  of  conversation.  Others 
remark  upon  the  troublesome  nature  of  his 
cough.  And  so  on,  until  his  peculiarities  and 
the  company  are  both  thoroughly  exhausted. 

His  friends  and  relations  make  matters  still 
more  unpleasant  for  the   poor  boy  (friends  and 


ON  BEING   SHY.  1 25 

relations  are  privileged  to  be  more  disagreeable 
than  other  people).  Not  content  with  making 
fun  of  him  amongst  themselves,  they  insist  on 
his  seeing  the  joke.  They  mimic  and  caricature 
him  for  his  own  edification.  One,  pretending  to 
imitate  him,  goes  outside,  and  comes  in  again  in 
a  ludicrously  nervous  manner,  explaining  to  him 
afterward  that  that  is  the  way  he — meaning  the 
shy  fellow — walks  into  a  room  ;  or,  turning  to 
him  with,  "This  is  the  way  you  shake  hands," 
proceeds  to  go  through  a  comic  pantomine  with 
the  rest  of  the  room,  taking  hold  of  every  one's 
hand  as  if  it  were  a  hot  plate,  and  flabbily  drop- 
ping it  again.  And  then  they  ask  him  why  he 
blushes,  and  zvhy  he  stammers,  and  why  he 
always  speaks  in  an  almost  inaudible  tone,  as  if 
they  thought  he  did  it  on  purpose.  Then  one  of 
them,  sticking  out  his  chest,  and  strutting  about 
the  room  like  a  pouter-pigeon,  suggests  quite 
seriously  that  that  is  the  style  he  should  adopt. 
The  old  man  slaps  him  on  the  back,  and  says, 
"  Be  bold,  my  boy.  Don't  be  afraid  of  any  one." 
The  mother  says,  "  Never  do  anything  that  you 
need  be  ashamed  of,  Algernon,  and  then  you 
never   need    be  ashamed  of   anything  you  do," 


126  ON  BEING   SHY. 

and,  beaming  mildly  at  him,  seems  surprised  at 
the  clearness  of  her  own  logic.  The  boys  tell 
him  that  he's  "  worse  than  a  girl,"  and  the  girls 
repudiate  the  implied  slur  upon  their  sex  by 
indignantly  exclaiming  that  they  are  sure  no  girl 
would  be  half  as  bad. 

They  are  quite  right ;  no  girl  would  be. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  shy  woman,  or,  at 
all  events,  I  have  never  come  across  one,  and, 
until  I  do,  I  shall  not  believe  in  them.  I  know 
that  the  generally  accepted  belief  is  quite  the 
reverse.  All  women  are  supposed  to  be  like 
timid,  startled  fawns,  blushing  and  casting  down 
their  gentle  eyes  when  looked  at,  and  running 
away  when  spoken  to;  while  we  men  are  sup- 
posed to  be  a  bold  and  rollicky  lot,  and  the 
poor,  dear  little  women  admire  us  for  it,  but  arc 
terribly  afraid  of  us.  It  is  a  pretty  theory,  but, 
like  most  generally  accepted  theories,  mere  non- 
sense. The  girl  of  twelve  is  self-contained,  and 
as  cool  as  the  proverbial  cucumber,  while  her 
brother  of  twenty  stammers  and  stutters  by  her 
side.  A  woman  will  enter  a  concert-room  late, 
interrupt  the  performance,  and  disturb  the  whole 
audience  without  moving  a  hair,  while  her  hus« 


ON  BEING  SHY,  1 27 

band  follows  her,  a  crushed  heap  of  apologizing 
misery. 

The  superior  nerve  of  women  in  all  matters 
connected  with  love,  from  the  casting  of  the 
first  sheep's  eye  down  to  the  end  of  the  honey- 
moon, is  too  well  acknowledged  to  need  com- 
ment. Nor  is  the  example  a  fair  one  to  cite  in 
the  present  instance,  the  positions  not  being 
equally  balanced.  Love  is  woman's  business, 
and  in  "  business  "  we  all  lay  aside  our  natural 
weaknesses — the  shyest  man  I  ever  knew  was  a 
photographic  tout. 


ON  BABIES, 

/^^H  yes,  I  do — I  know  a  lot  about  'em.  I 
^^  was  one  myself  once — though  not  long, 
not  so  long  as  my  clothes.  They  were  very  long, 
I  recollect,  and  always  in  my  way  when  I  wanted 
to  kick.  Why  do  babies  have  such  yards  of  un- 
necessary clothing?  It  is  not  a  riddle.  I  really 
want  to  knov\\  I  never  could  understand  it.  Is 
it  that  the  parents  are  ashamed  of  the  size  of  the 
child,  and  wish  to  make  believe  that  it  is  longer 
than  it  actually  is  ?  I  asked  a  nurse  once  why  it 
was.     She  said : 

'*  Lor',  sir,  they  always  have  long  clothes,  bless 
their  little  hearts." 

And  when  I  explained  that  her  answer, 
although  doing  credit  to  her  feelings,  hardly 
disposed  of  my  difificulty,  she  replied: 

"  Lor',  sir,  you  wouldn't  have  'em  in  short 
clothes,  poor  little  dears  ?  "  And  she  said  it  in  a 
tone  that  seemed  to  imply  I  had  suggested  some 
unmanly  outrage. 

128 


ON  BABIES.  129 

Since  then,  I  have  felt  shy  at  making  inquiries 
on  the  subject,  and  the  reason — if  reason  there 
be — is  still  a  mystery  to  me.  But,  indeed,  put- 
ting them  in  any  clothes  at  all  seems  absurd  to 
my  mind.  Goodness  knows,  there  is  enough  of 
dressing  and  undressing  to  be  gone  through  in 
life,  without  beginning  it  before  we  need  ;  and 
one  would  think  that  people  who  live  in  bed 
might,  at  all  events,  be  spared  the  torture. 
Why  wake  the  poor  little  wretches  up  in  the 
morning  to  take  one  lot  of  clothes  off,  fix 
another  lot  on,  and  put  them  to  bed  again  ;  and 
then,  at  night,  haul  them  out  once  more,  merely 
to  change  everything  back?  And  when  all  is  done, 
what  difference  is  there,  I  should  like  to  know, 
between  a  baby's  night-shirt  and  the  thing  it 
wears  in  the  day-time  ? 

Very  likely,  however,  I  am  only  making  myself 
ridiculous — I  often  do  ;  so  I  am  inforned — and  I 
will,  therefore,  say  no  more  upon  this  matter  of 
clothes,  except  only  that  it  would  be  of  great 
convenience  if  some  fashion  were  adopted, 
enabling  you  to  tell  a  boy  from  a  girl. 

At  present  it  is  most  awkward.  Neither  hair, 
dress,  nor  conversation  affords  the  slightest  clue, 


13°  ON  BABIES. 

and  you  are  left  to  guess.  By  some  mysterious 
law  of  Nature,  you  invariably  guess  wrong,  and 
are  thereupon  regarded  by  all  the  relatives  and 
friends  as  a  mixture  of  fool  and  knave,  the 
enormity  of  alluding  to  a  male  babe  as  "  she  " 
being  only  equalled  by  the  atrocity  of  referring 
to  a  female  infant  as  "  he."  Whichever  sex  the 
particular  child  in  question  happens  riot  to 
belong  to  is  considered  as  beneath  contempt, 
and  any  mention  of  it  is  taken  as  a  personal 
insult  to  the  family. 

And,  as  you  value  your  fair  name,  do  not 
attempt  to  get  out  of  the  difficulty  by  talking  of 
"  it."  There  are  various  methods  by  which  you 
may  achieve  ignominy  and  shame.  By  murder- 
ing a  large  and  respected  family  in  cold  blood, 
and  afterwards  depositing  their  bodies  in  the 
water  companies'  reservoir,  you  will  gain  much 
unpopularity  in  the  neighborhood  of  your  crime, 
and  even  robbing  a  church  will  get  you  cordially 
disliked,  especially  by  the  vicar.  [  But  if  you 
desire  to  drain  to  the  dregs  the  fullest  cup  of 
scorn  and  hatred  that  a  fellow  human  creature 
can  pour  out  for  you,  let  a  young  mother  hear 
you  call  dear  baby  "  it." 


ON  BABIES.  131 

Your  best  plan  is  to  address  the  article  as 
**  little  angel."  The  noun  "  angel  "  being  of 
common  gender,  suits  the  case  admirably,  and 
the  epithet  is  sure  of  being  favorably  received. 
"  Pet  "  or  "  beauty"  are  useful  for  variety's  sake, 
but  "  angel  "  is  the  term  that  brings  you  the 
greatest  credit  for  sense  and  good  feeling.  The 
word  should  be  preceded  by  a  short  giggle,  and 
accompanied  by  as  much  smile  as  possible. 
And,  whatever  you  do,  don't  forget  to  say  that 
the  child  has  got  its  father's  nose.  This 
*'  fetches "  the  parents  (if  I  may  be  allowed  a 
vulgarism)  more  than  anything.  They  will  pre- 
tend to  laugh  at  the  idea  at  first,  and  will  say, 
*'  Oh,  nonsense  !  "  You  must  then  get  excited, 
and  insist  that  it  is  a  fact.  You  need  have  no 
conscientious  scruples  on  the  subject,  because 
the  thing's  nose  really  does  resemble  its  father's — 
at  all  events  quite  as  much  as  it  does  anything 
else  in  nature — being,  as  it  is,  a  mere  smudge.  |) 

Do  not  despise  these  hints,  my  friends.  There 
may  come  a  time  when,  with  mamma  on  one  side 
and  grandmamma  on  the  other,  a  group  of 
admiring  young  ladies  (not  admiring  you  though) 
behind,  and  a  bald-headed  dab  of  humanity  in 


132  ON  BABIES. 

front,  you  will  be  extremely  thankful  for  some 
idea  of  what  to  say.  A  man — an  unmarried 
man,  that  is — is  never  seen  to  such  disadvantage 
as  when  undergoing  the  ordeal  of  *'  seeing  baby." 
A  cold  shudder  runs  down  his  back  at  the  bare 
proposal,  and  the  sickly  smile  with  which  he  says 
how  delighted  he  shall  be,  ought  surely  to  move 
even  a  mother's  heart,  unless,  as  I  am  inclined  to 
believe,  the  whole  proceeding  is  a  mere  device, 
adopted  by  wives  to  discourage  the  visits  of 
bachelor  friends. 

It  is  a  cruel  trick,  though,  whatever  its  excuse 
may  be.  The  bell  is  rung,  and  somebody  sent  to 
tell  nurse  to  bring  baby  down.  This  is  the  sig- 
nal for  all  the  females  present  to  commence 
talking  "  baby,"  during  which  time,  you  are  left 
to  your  own  sad  thoughts,  and  the  speculations 
upon  the  practicability  of  suddenly  recollecting 
an  important  engagement,  and  the  likelihood  of 
your  being  believed  if  you  do.  Just  when  you 
have  concocted  an  absurdly  implausible  tale 
about  a  man  outside,  the  door  opens,  and  a  tall, 
severe-looking  woman  enters,  carrying  what  atfirts 
sight  appears  to  be  a  particularly  skinny  bolster, 
with  the  feathers  all  at  one  end.     Instinct,  how- 


ON  BABIES.  133 

ever,  tells  you  that  this  is  the  baby,  and  you  rise 
with  a  miserable  attempt  at  appearing  eager. 
When  the  first  gush  of  feminine  enthusiasm  with 
which  the  object  in  question  is  received  has  died 
out,  and  the  number  of  ladies  talking  at  once  has 
been  reduced  to  the  ordinary  four  or  five,  the 
circle  of  fluttering  petticoats  divides,  and  room  is 
made  for  you  to  step  forward.  This  you  do  with 
much  the  same  air  that  you  would  walk  into  the 
dock  at  Bow  Street,  and  then,  feeling  unuttera- 
bly miserable,  you  stand  solemnly  staring  at 
the  child.  There  is  dead  silence,  and  you  know 
that  every  one  is  waiting  for  you  to  speak. 
You  try  to  think  of  something  to  say,  but  find, 
to  your  horror,  that  your  reasoning  faculties  have 
left  you.  It  is  a  moment  of  despair,  and  your 
evil  genius,  seizing  the  opportunity,  suggests 
to  you  some  of  the  most  idiotic  remarks  that  it 
is  possible  for  a  human  being  to  perpetrate. 
Glancing  round  with  an  imbecile  smile,  you  snig- 
geringly  observe  that  "  It  hasn't  got  much  hair, 
has  it  ?  "  Nobody  answers  you  for  a  minute, 
but  at  last  the  stately  nurse  says  with  much 
gravity — *'  It  is  not  customary  for  children  five 
weeks  old  to  have  long  hair."     Another  silence 


134  ON  BABIES. 

follows  this,  and  you  feel  you  are  being  given  a 
second  chance,  which  you  avail  yourself  of  by 
inquiring  if  it  can  walk  yet,  or  what  they  feed 
it  on. 

By  this  time,  you  have  got  to  be  regarded  as 
not  quite  right  in  your  head,  and  pity  is  the  only 
thing  felt  for  you.  The  nurse,  however,  is  de- 
termined that,  insane  or  not,  there  shall  be  no 
shirking,  and  that  you  shall  go  through  your  task 
to  the  end.  In  the  tones  of  a  high  priestess, 
directing  some  religious  mystery,  she  says,  hold- 
ing the  bundle  towards  you,  "Take  her  in  your 
arms,  sir."  You  are  too  crushed  to  offer  any  re- 
sistance, and  so  meekly  accept  the  burden.  "Put 
5'our  arm  more  down  her  middle,  sir,"  says  the 
high  priestess,  and  then  all  step  back  and  watch 
you  intently  as  though  you  were  going  to  do  a 
trick  with  it. 

What  to  do  you  know  no  more  than  you  did 
what  to  say.  It  is  certain  somthing  must  be 
done,  however,  and  the  only  thing  that  occurs  to 
you  is  to  heave  the  unhappy  infant  up  and  down 
to  the  accompaniment  of  "oopsee-daisy,"  or  some 
remark  of  equal  intelligence.  "I  wouldn't  jig  her, 
sir,  if   I  were  you,"  says  the  nurse;  "a  very  little 


ON  BABIES.  135 

upsets  her.*'  You  promptly  decide  not  to  jig  her 
and  sincerely  hope  that  you  have  not  gone  too 
far  already. 

At  this  point,  the  child  itself,  who  has  hitherto 
been  regarding  you  with  an  expression  of  mingled 
horror  and  disgust,  puts  an  end  to  the  nonsense 
by  beginning  to  yell  at  the  top  of  its  voice,  at 
which  the  priestess  rushes  forward  and  snatches  it 
from  you  with,  "There,  there,  there !  What  did 
ums  do  to  urns?"  "How  very  extraordinary!" 
you  say  pleasantly.  "Whatever  made  it  go  off  like 
that?"  "Oh,  why  you  must  have  done  something 
to  her  I"  says  the  mother  indignantly;  "the  child 
wouldn't  scream  like  that  for  nothing."  It  is  evi- 
dent they  think  you  have  been  running  pins  into 
it. 

The  brat  is  calmed  at  last,  and  would  no  doubt 
remain  quiet  enough,  only  some  mischievous  busy- 
body points  you  out  again  with  "Who's  this, 
baby?"  and  the  intelligent  child,  recognizing  you, 
howls  louder  than  ever. 

Whereupon,  some  fat  old  lady  remarks  that 
"It's  strange  how  children  take  a  dislike  to  any 
one."  "Oh,  they  know,"  replies  another  mysteri- 
ously.    "It's  a  wonderful   thing,"  adds  a  third; 


136  ON  BABIES. 

and  then  everybody  looks  sideways  at  you,  con- 
vinced you  are  a  scoundrel  of  the  blackest  dye ; 
and  they  glory  in  the  beautiful  idea  that  your 
true  character,  unguessed  by  your  fellowmen,  haS' 
been  discovered  by  the  untaught  instinct  of  a  lit- 
tle child. 

Babies,  though,  with  all  their  crimes  and  errors, 
are  not  without  their  use — not  without  use,  surely, 
when  they  fill  an  empty  heart ;  not  without  use 
when,  at  their  call,  sunbeams  of  love  break 
through  care-clouded  faces ;  not  without  use  when 
their  little  fingers  press  wrinkles  into  smiles. 

Odd  little  people!  They  are  the  unconscious 
comedians  of  the  world's  great  stage.  They  sup- 
ply the  humor  in  life's  all  too  heavy  drama.  Each 
one,  a  small  but  determined  opposition  to  the 
order  of  things  in  general,  is  for  ever  doing  the 
wrong  thing,  at  the  wrong  time,  in  the  wrong 
place,  and  in  the  wrong  way.  The  nurse-girl,  who 
sent  Jenny  to  see  what  Tommy  and  Totty  were 
doing,  and  "tell  'em  they  mustn't,"  knew  infantile 
nature.  Give  an  average  baby  a  fair  chance,  and 
if  it  doesn't  do  something  it  oughtn't  to,  a  doc- 
tor should  be  called  in  at  once. 

They  have  a  genius  for  doing  the  most  ridicu- 


ON  BABIES.  137 

lous  things,  and  they  do  them  in  a  grave,  stoical 
manner  that  is  irresistible  The  business-Hke  air 
with  which  two  of  them  will  join  hands  and  pro- 
ceed due  east  at  a  break-neck  toddle,  while  an  ex- 
citable big  sister  is  roaring  for  them  to  follow  her 
in  a  westerly  direction,  is  most  amusing — except, 
perhaps,  for  the  big  sister.  They  walk  round  a 
soldier,  staring  at  his  legs  with  the  greatest  curi- 
osity, and  poke  him  too  see  if  he  is  real.  They 
stoutly  maintain,  against  all  argument,  and  much 
to  the  discomfort  of  the  victim,  that  the  bashful 
young  man  at  the  end  of  the  'bus  is  "dadda."  A 
crowded  street  corner  suggests  itself  to  their 
minds  as  a  favorable  spot  for  the  discussion  of 
family  affairs  at  a  shrill  treble.  When  in  the  mid- 
dle of  crossing  the  road,  they  are  seized  with  a 
sudden  impulse  to  dance,  and  the  doorstep  of  a 
busy  shop  is  the  place  they  always  select  for  sit- 
ting down  and  taking  off  their  shoes. 

When  at  home,  they  find  the  biggest  walking- 
stick  in  the  house,  or  an  umbrella — open  pre- 
ferred—  of  much  assistance  in  getting  upstairs. 
They  discover  that  they  love  Mary  Ann  at  the 
precise  moment  when  that  faithful  domestic  is 
blackleading  the  stove,   and   nothing  will  relieve 


138  ON  BABIES. 

their  feelings  but  to  embrace  her  then  and  there. 
With  regard  to  food,  their  favorite  dishes  are 
coke  and  cat's  meat.  They  nurse  pussy  upside 
down,  and  they  show  their  affection  for  the  dog 
by  pulHng  his  tail. 

They  are  a  deal  of  trouble,  and  they  make  a 
place  untidy,  and  they  cost  a  lot  of  money  to 
keep;  but  still  you  would  not  have  the  house 
without  them.  It  would  not  be  home  without 
their  noisy  tongues  and  their  mischief-making 
hands.  Would  not  the  rooms  seem  silent  without 
their  pattering  feet,  and  might  not  you  stray 
apart  if  no  prattling  voices  called  you  together? 

It  should  be  so,  and  yet  I  have  sometimes 
thought  the  tiny  hand  seemed  as  a  wedge,  divid- 
ing. It  is  a  bearish  task  to  quarrel  with  that 
purest  of  all  human  affections — that  perfecting 
touch  to  a  woman's  life — a  mother's  love.  It  is 
a  holy  love,  that  we  coarser  fibered  men  can  hardly 
understand,  and  I  would  not  be  deemed  to  lack 
reverence  for  it  when  I  say  that  surely  it  need 
not  swallow  up  all  other  affection.  The  baby 
need  not  take  your  whole  heart,  like  the  rich  man 
who  walled  up  the  desert  well.  Is  there  not  an- 
other  thirsty  traveler  standing  by? 


ON  BABIES.  139 

Do  not,  :n  your  desire  to  be  a  good  mother,  for- 
get to  be  a  good  wife.  No  need  for  all  the 
thought  and  care  to  be  only  for  one.  Do  not, 
whenever  poor  Edwin  wants  you  to  come  out,  an- 
swer indignantly,  "What,  and  leave  baby!"  Do 
not  spend  all  your  evenings  upstairs,  and  do  not 
confine  your  conversation  exclusively  to  whoop- 
ing-cough and  measles.  My  dear  little  woman, 
the  child  is  not  going  to  die  every  time  it  sneezes, 
the  house  is  not  bound  to  get  burnt  down,  and 
the  nurse  run  away  with  a  soldier,  every  time  you 
go  outside  the  front  door;  nor  the  cat  sure  to 
come  and  sit  on  the  precious  child's  chest  the  mo- 
ment you  leave  the  bedside.  You  worry  yourself 
a  good  deal  too  much  about  that  solitary  chick, 
and  you  worry  everybody  else  too.  Try  and 
think  of  your  other  duties,  and  your  pretty  face 
will  not  be  always  puckered  into  wrinkles,  and 
there  will  be  cheerfulness  in  the  parlor  as  well  as 
in  the  nursery.  Think  of  your  big  baby  a  little. 
Dance  him  about  a  bit ;  call  him  pretty  names ; 
laugh  at  him  now  and  then.  It  is  only  the  first 
baby  that  takes  up  the  whole  of  a  woman's  time. 
Five  or  six  do  not  require  nearly  so  much  atten- 
tion as  one.     But  before  then  the  mischief  has 


I40  ON  BABIES. 

been  done.  A  house  where  there  seems  no  room 
for  him,  and  a  wife  too  busy  to  think  of  him,  have 
lost  their  hold  on  that  so  unreasonable  husband 
of  yours,  and  he  has  learnt  to  look  elsewhere  for 
comfort  and  companionship. 

But  there,  there,  there !  I  shall  get  myself  the 
character  of  a  baby  hater,  if  I  talk  any  more  in 
this  strain.  And  Heaven  knows  I  am  not  one. 
Who  could  be,  to  look  into  the  little  innocent 
faces  clustered  in  timid  helplessness  round  those  • 
great  gates  that  open  down  into  the  world? 

The  world !  the  small  round  world  !  what  a 
vast,  mysterious  place  it  must  seem  to  baby 
eyes !  What  a  trackless  continent  the  back  gar- 
den appears !  What  marvelous  explorations 
they  make  in  the  cellar  under  the  stairs  !  With 
what  awe  they  gaze  down  the  long  street,  won- 
dering, like  us  bigger  babies,  when  we  gaze  up  at 
the  stars,  where  it  all  ends ! 

And  down  that  longest  street  of  all — that 
long,  dim  street  of  life  that  stretches  out  before 
them — what  grave,  old-fashioned  looks  they 
seem  to  cast !  What  pitiful,  frightened  looks 
sometimes !  I  saw  a  little  mite  sitting  on  a 
doorstep  in  a  Soho  slum   one   night,  and  I   shall 


ON  BABIES.  141 

never  forget  the  look  that  the  gas-lamp  showed 
me  on  its  wizen  face — a  look  of  dull  despair,  as 
if,  from  the  squalid  court,  the  vista  of  its  own 
squalid  life  had  risen,  ghost-like,  and  struck  its 
heart  dead  with  horror. 

Poor  little  feet,  just  commencing  the  stony 
journey  !  We,  old  travelers,  far  down  the  road, 
can  only  pause  to  wave  a  hand  to  you.  You 
come  out  of  the  dark  mist,  and  we,  looking  back, 
see  you,  so  tiny  in  the  distance,  standing  on  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  your  arms  stretched  out  toward 
us.  God  speed  you  !  We  would  stay  and  take 
your  little  hands  in  ours,  but  the  murmur  of  the 
great  sea  is  in  our  ears,  and  we  may  not  linger. 
We  must  hasten  down,  for  the  shadowy  ships  are 
waiting  to  spread  their  sable  sails. 


ON  EA  TING  AND  DRINKING. 

T  ALWAYS  was  fond  of  eating  and  drinking, 
■*•  even  as  a  child — especially  eating,  in  those 
early  days.  I  had  an  appetite  then,  also  a  diges- 
tion. I  remember  a  dull-eyed,  livid-complex- 
ioned  gentleman  coming  to  dine  at  our  house 
once.  He  watched  me  eating  for  about  five 
minutes,  quite  fascinated,  seemingly,  and  then 
he  turned  to  my  father,  with,  "  Does  your  boy 
ever  suffer  from  dyspepsia?  " 

**  I  never  heard  him  complain  of  anything  of 
that  kind,"  replied  my  father.  "  Do  you  ever 
suffer  from  dyspepsia.  Collywobbles  ?  "  (They 
called  me  Collywobbles,  but  it  was  not  my  real 
name.) 

"  No,  pa,"  I  answered.  After  which,  I  added, 
"  What  is  dyspepsia,  pa  ?  " 

My   livid-complexioned    friend    regarded    me 
with  a  look  of  mingled   amazement  and    envy. 
Then  in  a  tone   of  infinite  pity  he  slowly  said, 
"You  will  know — some  day." 
143 


ON  EA  TING  AND  DRINKING.  I43 

My  poor,  dear  mother  used  to  say  she  liked  to 
see  me  eat,  and  it  has  always  been  a  pleasant 
reflection  to  me  since,  that  I  must  have  given 
her  much  gratification  in  that  direction.  A 
growing,  healthy  lad,  taking  plenty  of  exercise, 
and  careful  to  restrain  himself  from  indulging  in 
too  much  study,  can  generally  satisfy  the  most 
exacting  expectations  as  regards  his  feeding 
powers. 

It  is  amusing  to  see  boys  eat,  when  you  have 
not  got  to  pay  for  it.  Their  idea  of  a  square 
meal  is  a  pound  and  a  half  of  roast  beef  with  five 
or  six  good-sized  potatoes  (soapy  ones  preferred, 
as  being  more  substantial),  plenty  of  greens,  and 
four  thick  slices  of  Yorkshire  pudding,  followed 
by  a  couple  of  currant  dumplings,  a  few  green 
apples,  a  pen'orth  of  nuts,  half-a-dozen  jumbles, 
and  a  bottle  of  ginger  beer.  After  that,  they 
play  at  horses. 

How  they  must  despise  us  men,  who  require 
to  sit  quiet  for  a  couple  of  hours  after  dining  off 
a  spoonful  of  clear  soup  and  the  wing  of  a 
chicken  ! 

But  the  boys  have  not  all  the  advantages  on 
their  side.     A  boy  never  enjoys  the  luxury  of  be- 


144  ON  EATING  AND  DRINKING. 

ing  satisfied.  A  boy  never  feels  full.  He  can 
never  stretch  out  his  legs,  put  his  hands  behind 
his  head,  and,  closing  his  eyes,  sink  into  the 
ethereal  blissfulness  that  encompasses  the  well- 
dined  man.  A  dinner  makes  no  difference  what- 
ever to  a  boy.  To  a  man,  it  is  as  a  good  fairy's 
potion,  and,  after  it,  the  world  appears  a  brighter 
and  a  better  place.  A  man  who  has  dined  satis- 
factorily experiences  a  yearnrng  love  toward  all 
his  fellow  creatures.  He  strokes  the  cat  quite 
gently,  and  calls  it  "  poor  pussy,"  in  tones  full  of 
the  tenderest  emotion.  He  sympathizes  with 
the  members  of  the  German  band  outside,  and 
wonders  if  they  are  cold  ;  and,  for  the  moment, 
he  does  not  even  hate  his  wife's  relations. 

A  good  dinner  brings  out  all  the  softer  side  of 
a  man.  Under  its  genial  influence,  the  gloomy 
and  morose  become  jovial  and  chatty.  Sour, 
starchy  individuals,  who  all  the  rest  of  the  day 
go  about  looking  as  if  they  lived  on  vinegar  and 
Epsom  salts,  break  out  into  wreathed  smiles  after 
dinner,  and  exhibit  a  tendency  to  pat  small  child- 
ren on  the  head,  and  to  talk  to  them — vaguely 
— about  sixpences.  Serious  young  men  thaw, 
and  become  mildly  cheerful;  and  snobbish  young 


ON  EATING  AND  DRINKING.  145 

men,  of  the    heavy   moustache    type,   forget    to 
make  themselves  objectionable. 

I  always  feel  sentimental  myself  after  dinner. 
It  is  the  only  time  when  I  can  properly  appreci- 
ate love  stories.  Then,  when  the  hero  clasps 
**  her  "  to  his  heart  in  one  last  wild  embrace,  and 
stifles  a  sob,  I  feel  as  sad  as  though  I  had  dealt 
at  whist,  and  turned  up  only  a  deuce  ;  and,  when 
the  heroine  dies  in  the  end,  I  weep.  If  I  read 
the  same  tale  early  in  the  morning,  I  should  sneer 
at  it.  Digestion,  or  rather  indigestion,  has  a 
marvelous  effect  upon  the  heart.  If  I  want  to 
write  anything  very  pathetic — I  mean,  if  I  want 
to  try  to  write  anything  very  pathetic — I  eat  a 
large  plateful  of  hot  buttered  muffins  about  an 
hour  beforehand,  and,  then,  by  the  time  I  sit 
down  to  my  work,  a  feeling  of  unutterable  mel- 
ancholy has  come  over  me.  I  picture  heart- 
broken lovers  parting  forever  at  lonely  wayside 
stiles,  while  the  sad  twilight  deepens  around 
them,  and  only  the  tinkling  of  a  distant  sheep 
bell  breaks  the  sorrow-laden  silence.  Old  men 
sit  and  gaze  at  withered  flowers  till  their  sight 
is  dimmed  by  the  mist  of  tears.  Little  dainty 
maidens  wait  and  watch  at  open  casen^ents  ;  but, 


146  ON  EATING  AND  DRINKING. 

"he  Cometh  not,"  and  the  heavy  years  roll  by, 
and  the  sunny  gold  tresses  wear  white  and  thin. 
The  babies  that  they  dandled  have  become  grown 
men  and  women  with  podgy  torments  of  their 
own,  and  the  playmates  that  they  laughed  with 
are  lying  very  silent  under  the  waving  grass. 
But  still  they  wait  and  watch,  till  the  dark  shad- 
ows of  the  unknown  night  steal  up  and  gather 
round  them,  and  the  world  with  its  childish 
troubles  fades  from  their  aching  eyes. 

I  see  pale  corpses  tossed  on  white-foamed 
waves,  and  death-beds  stained  with  bitter  tears, 
and  graves  in  trackless  deserts.  I  hear  the  wild 
wailing  of  women,  the  low  moaning  of  the  little 
children,  the  dry  sobbing  of  strong  men.  It's  all 
the  muffins.  I  could  not  conjure  up  one  melan- 
choly fancy  upon  a  mutton  chop  and  a  glass  of 
champagne. 

A  full  stomach  is  a  great  aid  to  poetry,  and, 
indeed,  no  sentiment  of  any  kind  can  stand  upon 
an  empty  one.  We  have  not  time  or  inclination 
to  indulge  in  fanciful  troubles,  until  we  have  got 
rid  of  our  real  misfortunes.  We  do  not  sigh  over 
dead  dicky-birds  with  the  bailiff  in  the  house; 
and,  when  we  do  not  know  where  on  earth  to  get 


ON  EATING  AND  DRINKING.  147 

our  next  shilling  from,  we  do  not  worry  as  to 
whether  our  mistress's  smiles  are  cold,  or  hot,  or 
luke-warm,  or  anything  else  about  them. 

Foolish  people — when  I  say  "foolish  people'*  in 
this  contemptuous  way,  I  mean  people  who  enter- 
tain different  opinions  to  mine.  If  there  is  one 
person  I  do  despise  more  than  another,  it  is  the 
man  who  does  not  think  exactly  the  same  on  all 
topics  as  I  do.  Foolish  people,  I  say,  then,  who 
have  never  experienced  much  of  either,  will  tell 
you  that  mental  distress  is  far  more  agonizing 
than  bodily.  Romantic  and  touching  theory!  so 
comforting  to  the  love-sick  young  sprig  who 
.looks  down  patronizingly  at  some  poor  devil  with 
a  white  starved  face,  and  thinks  to  himself,  "Ah, 
how  happy  you  are  compared  with  me!"  so 
soothing  to  fat  old  gentlemen  who  cackle  about 
the  superiority  of  poverty  over  riches.  But  it  is 
all  nonsense — all  cant.  An  aching  head  soon 
makes  one  forget  an  aching  heart.  A  broken  fin- 
ger will  drive  away  all  recollections  of  an  empty 
chair.  And  when  a  man  feels  really  hungry,  he 
does  not  feel  anything  else. 

We  sleek,  well-fed  folk  can  hardly  realize  what 
feeling  hungry  is  like.    We  know  what  it  is  to  have 


14^  ON  EATING  AND   DRINKING. 

no  appetite,  and  not  to  care  for  the  dainty  victu- 
als placed  before  us,  but  we  do  not  understand 
what  it  means  to  sicken  for  food — to  die  for 
bread  while  others  waste  it — to  gaze  with  fam- 
ished eyes  upon  coarse  fare  steaming  behind 
dingy  windows,  longing  for  a  pen'orth  of  pease 
pudding,  and  not  having  the  penny  to  buy  it — to 
feel  that  a  crust  would  be  delicious,  and  that  a 
bone  would  be  a  banquet. 

Hunger  is  a  luxury  to  us,  a  piquant,  flavor- 
giving  sauce.  It  is  well  worth  while  to  get  hun- 
gry and  thirsty,  mereiy  to  discover  how  much 
gratification  can  be  obtained  from  eating  and 
drinking.  If  you  wish  to  thoroughly  enjoy  your 
dinner,  take  a  thirty-mile  country  walk  after  break- 
fast, and  don't  touch  anything  till  you  get  back. 
How  your  eyes  will  glisten  at  sight  of  the  white 
table-cloth  and  steaming  dishes  then !  With 
what  a  sigh  of  content  you  will  put  down  the 
empty  beer  tankard,  and  take  up  your  knife  and 
fork!  And  how  comfortable  you  feel  afterwards, 
as  you  push  back  your  chair,  light  a  cigar,  and 
beam  round  upon  everybody. 

Make  sure,  however,  when  adopting  this  plan, 
that   the  good  dinner  is  really  to  be  had   at  the 


ON  EATING  AND  DRINKING.  149 

end,  or  the  disappointment  is  trying.  I  remem- 
ber once  a  friend  and  I — dear  old  Joe,  it  was. 
Ah !  how  we  lose  one  another  in  life's  mist.  It 
must  be  eight  years  since  I  last  saw  Joseph 
Taboys.  How  pleasant  it  would  be  to  meet  his 
jovial  face  again,  to  clasp  his  strong  hand,  and  to 
hear  his  cheery  laugh  once  more!  He  owes  me 
fourteen  shillings,  too.  Well,  we  were  on  a  holi- 
day together,  and  one  morning  we  had  breakfast 
early,  and  started  for  a  tremendous  long  walk. 
We  had  ordered  a  duck  for  dinner  over  night. 
We  said,  "Get  a  big  one,  because  we  shall  come 
home  awfully  hungry" ;  and,  as  we  were  going 
out,  our  landlady  came  up  in  great  spirits.  She 
said,  "I  have  got  you  gentlemen  a  duck,  if  you 
like.  If  you  get  through  that,  you'll  do  well"; 
and  she  held  up  a  bird  about  the  size  of  a  door- 
mat. We  chuckled  at  the  sight,  and  said  we 
would  try.  We  said  it  with  self-conscious  pride, 
like  men  who  know  their  own  power.  Then  we 
started. 

We  lost  our  way,  of  course.  I  always  do  in 
the  country,  and  it  does  make  me  so  wild, 
because  it  is  no  use  asking  direction  of  any  of  the 
people   you  meet.      One    might    as   well  inquire 


150  ON  EATING  AND  DRINKING. 

of  a  lodging-house  slavey  the  way  to  make  beds, 
as  expect  a  country  bumpkin  to  know  the  road 
to  the  next  village.  You  have  to  shout  the  ques- 
tion about  three  times,  before  the  sound  of  your 
voice  penetrates  his  skull.  At  the  third  time,  he 
slowly  raises  his  head,  and  stares  blankly  at  you. 
You  yell  it  at  him  then  for  a  fourth  time,  and  he 
repeats  it  after  you.  He  ponders  while  you 
could  count  a  couple  of  hundred,  after  which, 
speaking  at  the  rate  of  three  words  a  minute,  he 

fancies    you     "couldn't    do    better    than   ." 

Here  he  catches  sight  of  another  idiot  coming 
down  the  road,  and  bawls  out  to  him  the  particu- 
lars, requesting  his  advice.  The  two  then  argue 
the  case  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so,  and  finally 
agree  that  you  had  better  go  straight  down  the 
lane,  round  to  the  right,  and  cross  by  the  third 
stile,  and  keep  to  the  left  by  old  Jimmy  Milcher's 
cow-shed,  and  across  the  seven-acre  field,  and 
through  the  gate  by  Squire  Grubbin's  hay-stack, 
keeping  the  bridle-path  for  a  while,  till  you  come 
opposite  the  hill  where  the  windmill  used  to  be — 
but  its  gone  now — and  round  to  the  right,  leav- 
ing Stiggin's  plantation  behind  you ;  and  you 
say    "Thank   you,"  and  go  away  with  a  splitting 


ON  EATING  AND  DRINKING.  l%\ 

headache,  but  without  the  faintest  notion  of  your 
way,  the  only  clear  idea  you  have  on  the  subject 
being  that  somewhere  or  other  there  is  a  stile 
which  has  to  be  got  o/er;  and,  at  the  next  turn, 
you  come  upon  four  stiles,  all  leading  in  different 
directions! 

We  had  undergone  this  ordeal  two  or  three 
times.  We  had  tramped  over  fields.  We  had 
waded  through  brooks,  and  scrambled  over 
hedges  and  walls.  We  had  had  a  row  as  to 
whose  fault  it  was  that  we  had  first  lost  our  way. 
We  had  got  thoroughly  disagreeable,  footsore, 
and  weary.  But,  throughout  it  all,  the  hope  of 
that  duck  kept  us  up.  A  fairy-like  vision,  it 
floated  before  our  tired  eyes,  and  drew  us  on- 
ward. The  thought  of  it  was  as  a  trumpet  call 
to  the  fainting.  We  talked  of  it,  and  cheered 
each  other  with  our  recollections  of  it.  "  Come 
along,"  we  said,  *'  the  duck  will  be  spoilt." 

We  felt  a  strong  tempation,  at  one  point,  to 
turn  into  a  village  inn  as  we  passed,  and  have  a 
cheese  and  a  few  loaves  between  us  ;  but  we 
heroically  restrained  ourselves  :  we  should  enjoy 
the  duck  all  the  better  for  being  famished. 

We  fancied  we  smelt  it  when  we  got  into  the 


I 


I 


152  ON  EATING  AND  DRINKING. 

town  and  did  the  last  quarter  of  a  mile  in  three 
minutes.     We  rushed  upstairs,  and  washed  our-         | 
selves,  and  changed   our  clothes,  and  came  down,  'h 

and  pulled  our  chairs  up  to  the  table,  and  sat  and 
rubbed  our  hands  while  the  landlady  removed 
the  covers,  when  I  seized  the  knife  and  fork  and 
started  to  carve.  > 

It  seemed  to  want  a  lot  of  carving.  I  strug- 
gled  with  it  for  about  five  minutes  without 
making  the  slightest  impression,  and  then  Joe, 
who  had  been  eating  potatoes,  wanted  to  know  if 
it  wouldn't  be  better  for  some  one  to  do  the  job 
that  understood  carving.  I  took  no  notice  of 
his  foolish  remark,  but  attacked  the  bird  again ; 
and  so  vigorously  this  time,  that  the  animal  left 
the  dish,  and  took  refuge  in  the  fender. 

We  soon  had  it  out  of  that  though,  and  I  was 
prepared  to  make  another  effort.  But  Joe  was 
getting  unpleasant.  He  said  that  if  he  had 
thought  we  were  to  have  a  game  of  blind  hockey 
w^ith  the  dinner,  he  would  have  got  a  bit  of  bread 
and  cheese  outside. 

I  was  too  exhausted  to  argue.  I  laid  down 
the  knife  and  fork  with  dignity,  and  took  a  side 
seat ;  and  Joe   went   for  the  wretched   creature 


ON  EATING  AND  DRINKING.  I53 

He  worked  away,  in  silence  for  a  while,  and  then 
he  muttered,  '*  Damn  the  duck,"  and  took  his 
coat  off. 

We  did  break  the  thing  up  at  length,  with  the 
aid  of  a  chisel ;  but  it  was  perfectly  impossible  to 
eat  it,  and  we  had  to  make  a  dinner  off  the  vege- 
tables and  an  apple  tart.  We  tried  a  mouthful 
of  the  duck,  but  it  was  like  eating  india-rubber. 

It  was  a  wicked  sin  to  kill  that  drake.  But 
there  !  there's  no  respect  for  old  institutions  in 
this  country. 

I  started  this  paper  with  the  idea  of  writing 
about  eating  and  drinking,  but  I  seem  to  have 
confined  my  remarks  entirely  to  eating  as  yet. 
Well,  you  see,  drinking  is  one  of  those  subjects 
with  which  it  is  unadvisable  to  appear  too  well 
acquainted.  The  days  are  gone  by  when  it  was 
considered  manly  to  go  to  bed  intoxicated  every 
night,  and  a  clear  head  and  a  firm  hand  no  longer 
draw  down  upon  their  owner  the  reproach  of 
effeminacy.  On  the  contrary,  in  these  sadly 
degenerate  days,  an  evil-smelling  breath,  a  blotchy 
face,  a  reeling  gait,  and  a  husky  voice  are  regarded 
as  the  hall-marks  of  the  cad  rather  than  of  the 
gentleman. 


154  ON  EATING  AND  DRINKING. 

Even  nowadays,  though,  the  thirstiness  of 
mankind  is  something  supernatural.  We  are  for 
ever  drinking  on  one  excuse  or  another.  A  man 
never  feels  comfortable  unless  he  has  a  glass 
before  him.  We  drink  before  meals,  and  with 
meals,  and  after  meals.  We  drink  when  we  meet 
a  friend,  also  when  we  part  from  a  friend.  We 
drink  when  we  are  talking,  when  we  are  reading, 
and  when  we  are  thinking.  We  drink  one  an- 
other's healths,  and  spoil  our  own.  We  drink 
the  Queen,  and  the  Army,  and  the  Ladies,  and 
everybody  else  that  is  drinkable  ;  and,  I  believe, 
if  the  supply  ran  short,  we  should  drink  our 
mothers-in-law. 

By-the-way,  we  never  eat  anybody's  health, 
always  drink  it.  Why  should  we  not  stand  up 
now  and  then  and  eat  a  tart  to  somebody's  suc- 
cess ? 

To  me,  I  confess,  the  constant  necessity  of 
drinking  under  which  the  majority  of  men  labor 
is  quite  unaccountable.  I  can  understand  people 
drinking  to  drown  care,  or  to  drive  away  madden- 
ing thoughts,  well  enough.  I  can  understand  the 
ignorant  masses  loving  to  soak  themselves  in 
drink — oh,  yes,  it's  very  shocking  that  they 
should,  of  course — very  shocking  to  us  who  live 


ON  EATING  AND  DRINKING.  155 

in  cosy  homes,  with  all  the  graces  and  pleasures 
of  life  around  us,  that  the  dwellers  in  damp  cellars 
and  windy  attics  should  creep  from  their  dens  of 
misery  into  the  warmth  and  glare  of  the  public- 
house  bar,  and  seek  to  float  for  a  brief  space  away 
from  their  dull  world  upon  a  Lethe  stream  of  gin. 

But  think,  before  you  hold  up  your  hands  in 
horror  at  their  ill-living,  what  ''  life  "  for  these 
wretched  creatures  really  means.  Picture  the 
squalid  misery  of  their  brutish  existence,  dragged 
on  from  year  to  year  in  the  narrow,  noisome  room 
where,  huddled  like  vermin  in  sewers,  they  welter, 
and  sicken,  and  sleep  ;  where  dirt-grimed  children 
scream  and  fight,  and  sluttish,  shrill-voiced  women 
cufT,  and  curse,  and  nag  ;  where  the  street  outside 
teems  with  roaring  filth,  and  the  house  around  is 
a  bedlam  of  riot  and  stench. 

Think  what  a  sapless  stick  this  fair  flower  of 
life  must  be  to  them,  devoid  of  mind  and  soul. 
The  horse  in  his  stall  scents  the  sweet  hay,  and 
munches  the  ripe  corn  contentedly.  The  watch- 
dog in  his  kennel  blinks  at  the  grateful  sun, 
dreams  of  a  glorious  chase  over  the  dewy  fields, 
and  wakes  with  a  yelp  of  gladness  to  greet  a 
caressing  hand.  But  the  clod-like  life  of  these 
human  logs  never  knows  one  ray  of  light.     From 


156  ON  EATING  AND  DRINKING. 

the  hour  when  they  crawl  from  their  comfortless 
bed  to  the  hour  when  they  lounge  back  into  it 
again,  they  never  live  one  moment  of  real  life. 
Recreation,  amusement,  companionship,  they 
know  not  the  meaning  of.  Joy,  sorrow,  laughter, 
tears,  love,  friendship,  longing,  despair,  are  idle 
words  to  them.  From  the  day  when  their  baby 
eyes  first  look  out  upon  their  sordid  world  to  the 
day  when,  with  an  oath,  they  close  them  forever, 
and  their  bones  are  shoveled  out  of  sight,  they 
never  warm  to  one  touch  of  human  sympathy, 
never  thrill  to  a  single  thought,  never  start  to  a 
single  hope.  In  the  name  of  the  God  of  mercy 
let  them  pour  the  maddening  liquor  down  their 
throats,  and  feel  for  one  brief  moment  that  they 
live ! 

Ah !  we  may  talk  sentiment  as  much  as  we  like, 
but  the  stomach  is  the  real  seat  of  happiness  in 
this  world.  The  kitchen  is  the  chief  temple 
wherein  we  worship,  its  roaring  fire  is  our  vestal 
flame,  and  the  cook  is  our  great  high-priest.  He 
is  a  mighty  magician  and  a  kindly  one.  He 
soothes  away  all  sorrow  and  care.  He  drives 
forth  all  enmity,  gladdens  all  love.  Our  God  is 
great,  and  the  cook  is  his  prophet.  Let  us  eat, 
drink,  and  be  merry. 


ON  ''FURNISHED  APAR  TMENTSr 

"y^^H,  you  have  some  rooms  to  let." 

vJ     "Mother!" 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"  'Ere's  a  gentleman  about  the  rooms/* 

**Ask  'im  in.     I'll  be  up  in  a  minute." 

"Will  yer  step  inside,  sir?  Mother'll  be  up  in 
a  minute." 

So  you  step  inside,  and,  after  a  minute, 
"mother"  comes  slowly  up  the  kitchen  stairs, 
untying  her  apron  as  she  comes,  and  calling  down 
instructions  to  some  one  below  about  the  pota- 
toes. 

"Good-morning,  sir,"  says  "mother,"  with  a 
washed-out  smile;  "will  you  step  this  way, 
please?" 

"Oh,  it's  hardly  worth  while  my  coming  up," 
you  say ;  "what  sort  of  rooms  are  they,  and  how 
much?" 

"Well,"   says  the   landlady,  "if  you'll  step   up- 
stairs, I'll  show  them  to  you." 
157 


158  ON  ''  FURNISHED  APAR TMENTS. " 

So,  with  a  protesting  murmur,  meant  to  imply 
that  any  waste  of  time  complained  of  hereafter 
must  not  be  laid  to  your  charge,  you  follow 
"mother"  upstairs. 

At  the  first  landing,  you  run  up  against  a  pail 
and  a  broom,  whereupon  "mother"  expatiates  upon 
the  unreliability  of  servant-girls,  and  bawls  over 
the  balusters  for  Sarah  to  come  and  take  them 
away  at  once.  When  you  get  outside  the  rooms, 
she  pauses,  with  her  hand  upon  the  door,  to 
explain  to  you  that  they  are  rather  untidy  just  at 
present,  as  the  last  lodger  left  only  yesterday; 
and  she  also  adds  that  this  is  their  cleaning  day — 
it  always  is.  With  this  understanding,  you  enter, 
and  both  stand  solemnly  feasting  your  eyes  upon 
the  scene  before  you.  The  rooms  cannot  be  said 
to  appear  inviting.  Even  "mother's"  face  be- 
trays no  admiration.  Untenanted  "furnished 
apartments,"  viewed  in  the  morning  sunlight,  do 
not  inspire  cheery  sensations.  There  is  a  lifeless 
air  about  them.  It  is  a  very  different  thing  when 
you  have  settled  down  and  are  living  in  them. 
With  your  old  familiar  household  gods  to  greet 
your  gaze  whenever  you  glance  up,  and  all  your 
little    nick-nacks   spread     around   you — with    the 


ON  '*  FURNISHED  APARTMENTS."  159 

photos  of  all  the  girls  that  you  have  loved  and 
lost  ranged  upon  the  mantel-piece,  and  half  a 
dozen  disreputable-looking  pipes  scattered  about 
in  painfully  prominent  positions — with  one  carpet 
slipper  peeping  from  beneath  the  coal-box,  and 
the  other  perched  on  the  top  of  the  piano — with 
the  well-known  pictures  to  hide  the  dingy  walls, 
and  these  dear  old  friends,  your  books,  higgledy- 
piggledy  all  over  the  place — with  the  bits  of  old 
blue  china  that  your  mother  prized,  and  the 
screen  she  worked  in  those  far  bygone  days, 
when  the  sweet  old  face  was  laughing  and  young, 
and  the  white  soft  hair  tumbled  in  gold-brown 
curls  from  under  the  coal-scuttle  bonnet — 

Ah,  old  screen,  what  a  gorgeous  personage  you 
must  have  been  in  your  young  days,  when  the 
tulips  and  roses  and  lilies  (all  growing  from  one 
stem)  were  fresh  in  their  glistening  sheen !  Many 
a  summer  and  winter  have  come  and  gone  since 
then,  my  friend,  and  you  have  played  with  the 
dancing  firelight,  until  you  have  grown  sad  and 
gray.  Your  brilliant  colors  are  fast  fading  now, 
and  the  envious  moths  have  gnawed  your  silken 
threads.  You  are  withering  away  like  the  dead 
hands   that   wove   you.       Do  you  ever  think    of 


l6o  ON  ''FURNISHED  APARTMENTS^ 

those  dead  hands?  You  seem  so  grave  and 
thoughtful,  sometimes,  that  I  almost  think  you 
do.  Come,  you  and  I  and  the  deep-glowing 
embers,  let  us  talk  together.  Tell  me,  in  your 
silent  language,  what  you  remember  of  those 
young  days,  when  you  lay  on  my  little  mother's 
lap,  and  her  girlish  fingers  played  with  your  rain- 
bow tresses.  Was  there  never  a  lad  near,  some- 
times— never  a  lad  who  would  seize  one  of  those 
little  hands  to  smother  it  with  kisses,  and  who 
would  persist  in  holding  it,  thereby  sadly  inter- 
fering with  the  progress  of  your  making?  Was 
not  your  frail  existence  often  put  in  jeopardy  by 
this  same  clumsy,  headstrong  lad,  who  would  toss 
you  disrespectfully  aside  that  he — not  satisfied 
with  one — might  hold  both  hands,  and  gaze  up 
into  the  loved  eyes?  I  can  see  that  lad  now 
through  the  haze  of  the  flickering  twilight.  He 
is  an  eager,  bright-eyed  boy,  with  pinching,  dandy 
shoes  and  tight-fitting  smalls,  snowy  shirt  frill 
and  stock,  and — oh !  such  curly  hair.  A  wild, 
light-hearted  boy!  Can  he  be  the  great,  grave 
gentleman  upon  whose  stick  I  used  to  ride  cross, 
legged,  the  care-worn  man  into  whose  thoughtful 
face  I  used   to  gaze   with  childish  reverence,  and 


ON  ' '  FURNISHED  AFAR  TMENTSr  1 6 1 

whom  I  used  to  call  "father?"  You  say  "y^s," 
old  screen;  but  are  you  quite  sure?  It  is  a  seri- 
ous charge  you  are  bringing;  can  it  be  possible? 
Did  he  have  to  kneel  down  in  those  wonderful 
smalls,  and  pick  you  up,  and  re-arrange  you, 
before  he  was  forgiven,  and  his  curly  head 
smoothed  by  my  mother's  little  hand?  Ah!  old 
screen,  and  did  the  lads  and  the  lassies  go  mak- 
ing love  fifty  years  ago  just  as  they  do  now? 
Are  men  and  women  so  unchanged?  Did  little 
maiden's  hearts  beat  the  same  under  pearl  em- 
broidered bodices  as  they  do  under  Mother  Hub- 
bard cloaks?  Have  steel  casques  and  chimney- 
pot hats  made  no  difference  to  the  brains  that 
work  beneath  them?  Oh,  Time!  great  Chronos! 
and  is  this  your  power?  Have  you  dried  up 
seas  and  levelled  mountains,  and  left  the  tiny 
human  heart-strings  to  defy  you?  Ah,  yes!  they 
were  spun  by  a  Mightier  than  thou,  and  they 
stretch  beyond  your  narrow  ken,  for  their  ends 
are  made  fast  in  eternity.  Ay,  you  may  mow 
down  the  leaves  and  the  blossoms,  but  the  roots 
of  life  lie  too  deep  for  your  sickle  to  sever.  You 
refashion  Nature's  garments,  but  you  cannot  vary 
by  a  jot  the  throbbings  of  her  pulse.     The  world 


l62  ON '' FURNISHED  apartments:*  , 

rolls  round  obedient  to  your  laws,  but  the  heart 
of  man  is  not  of  your  kingdom,  for  in  its  birth- 
place "a  thousand  years  are  but  as  yesterday." 

I  am  getting  away,  though,  I  fear,  from  my 
"  furnished  apartments,"  and  I  hardly  know  how 
to  get  back.  But  I  have  some  excuse  for  my 
meanderings  this  time.  It  is  a  piece  of  old  fur- 
niture that  has  led  me  astray,  and  fancies  gather, 
somehow,  round  old  furniture,  like  moss  around 
old  stones.  One's  chairs  and  tables  get  to  be 
almost  part  of  one's  life,  and  to  seem  like  quiet 
friends.  What  strange  tales  the  wooden-headed 
old  fellows  could  tell,  did  they  but  choose  to 
speak!  At  what  unsuspected  comedies  and 
tragedies  have  they  not  assisted  !  What  bitter 
tears  have  been  sobbed  into  that  old  sofa  cush- 
ion !  What  passionate  whisperings  the  settee 
must  have  overheard  ! 

New  furniture  has  no  charms  for  me,  compared 
with  old.  It  is  the  old  things  that  we  love — the 
old  faces,  the  old  books,  the  old  jokes.  New 
furniture  can  make  a  palace,  but  it  takes  old  fur- 
niture to  make  a  home.  Not  merely  old  in  itself, 
lodging-house  furniture  generally  is  that,  but  it 
must  be  old  to  us,  old   in   associations  and  recol- 


ON  '' FURNISHED  APARTMENTSr  163 

lections.  The  furniture  of  furnished  apartments, 
however  ancient  it  may  be  in  reality,  is  new  to 
our  eyes,  and  we  feel  as  though  we  could  never 
get  on  with  it.  As,  too,  in  the  case  of  all  fresh 
acquaintances,  whether  wooden  or  human  (and 
there  is  very  little  difference  between  the  two 
species  sometimes)  everything  impresses  you  with 
its  worst  aspect.  The  knobby  woodwork  and 
shiny  horse-hair  covering  of  the  easy-chair  sug- 
gest anything  but  ease.  The  mirror  is  smoky. 
The  curtains  want  washing.  The  carpet  is  frayed. 
The  table  looks  as  if  it  would  go  over  the 
instant  anything  was  rested  on  it.  The  grate  is 
cheerless,  the  wall-paper  hideous.  The  ceiling 
appears  to  have  had  coffee  spilt  all  over  it,  and 
the  ornaments — well,  they  are  worse  than  the 
wall-paper. 

There  must  surely  be  some  special  and  secret 
manufactory  for  the  production  of  lodging-house 
ornaments.  Precisely  the  same  articles  are  to  be 
found  at  every  lodging-house  all  over  the  king- 
dom, and  they  are  never  seen  anywhere  else.  There 
are  the  two — what  do  you  call  them  ?  they  stand 
one  at  each  end  of  the  mantelpiece,  where  they 
are  never  safe;    and  they  are  hung  round  with 


164  ON  '*  FURNISHED  AFAR TMENTS. " 

long  triangular  slips  of  glass  that  clank  against 
one  another  and  make  you  nervous.  In  the  com- 
moner class  of  rooms,  these  works  of  art  are  sup- 
plemented by  a  couple  of  pieces  of  china  which 
might  each  be  meant  to  represent  a  cow  sitting 
upon  its  hind  legs,  or  a  model  of  the  temple  of 
Dina  at  Ephesus,  or  a  dog,  or  anything  else  you 
like  to  fancy.  Somewhere  about  the  room  you 
come  across  a  bilious-looking  object,  which,  at 
first,  you  take  to  be  a  lump  of  dough,  left  about 
by  one  of  the  children,  but  which,  on  scrutiny, 
seems  to  resemble  an  underdone  Cupid.  This 
thing  the  landlady  calls  a  statue.  Then  there  is 
a  "sampler"  worked  by  some  idiot  related  to  the 
family,  a  picture  of  the  "  Huguenots,"  two  or 
three  Scripture  texts,  and  a  highly-framed  and 
glazed  certificate  to  the  effect  that  the  father  has 
been  vaccinated,  or  is  an  Oddfellow,  or  something 
of  that  sort. 

You  examine  these  various  attractions,  and 
then  dismally  ask  what  the  rent  is. 

"That's  rather  a  good  deal,"  you  say,  on  hear- 
ing the  figure. 

"Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  answers  the  land- 
lady with  a  sudden  burst  of  candor,  "  I've  always 


ON  "  FURNISHED  APAR  TMENTSr  165 

had  " — (mentioning  a  sum  a  good  deal  in  excess 
of  the  first  named  amount),  *'  and  before  that  I 
used  to  have  " — (a  still  higher  figure). 

What  the  rent  of  apartments  must  have  been 
twenty  years  ago  makes  one  shudder  to  think  of. 
Every  landlady  makes  you  feel  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  yourself  by  informing  you,  whenever 
the  subject  crops  up,  that  she  used  to  get  twice 
as  much  for  her  rooms  as  you  are  paying.  Young 
men  lodgers  of  the  last  generation  must  have 
been  of  a  wealthier  class  than  they  are  now,  or 
they  must  have  ruined  themselves.  I  should 
have  had  to  live  in  an  attic. 

Curious,  that  in  lodgings,  the  rule  of  life  is 
reserved.  The  higher  you  get  up  in  the  world, 
the  lower  you  come  down  in  your  lodgings.  On 
the  lodging-house  ladder,  the  poor  man  is  at  the 
top,  the  rich  man  underneath.  You  start  in  the 
attic,  and  work  your  way  down  to  the  first-floor. 

A  good  many  great  men  have  lived  in  attics, 
and  some  have  died  there.  Attics,  says  the 
dictionary,  are  "  places  where  lumber  is  stored," 
and  the  world  has  used  them  to  store  a  good  deal 
of  its  lumber  in  at  one  time  or  another.  Its 
preachers  and  painters  and  poets,  its  deep-browed 


l66  ON  '' FURNISHED  APARTMENTS." 

men  who  will  find  out  things,  its  fire-eyed  men 
who  will  tell  truths  that  no  one  wants  to  hear — 
these  are  the  lumber  that  the  world  hides  away  in 
its  attics.  Haydn  grew  up  in  an  attic,  and  Chat- 
terton  starved  in  one.  Addison  and  Goldsmith 
wrote  in  garrets.  Faraday  and  De  Quincey  knew 
them  well.  Dr.  Johnson  camped  cheerfully  in 
them,  sleeping  soundly — too  soundly  sometimes 
— upon  their  truckle  beds,  like  the  sturdy  old 
soldier  of  fortune  that  he  was,  inured  to  hardship 
and  all  careless  of  himself.  Dickens  spent  his 
youth  among  them,  Morland  his  old  age — alas  !  a 
drunken,  premature  old  age.  Hans  Anderson, 
the  fairy  king,  dreamt  his  sweet  fancies  beneath 
their  sloping  roofs.  Poor,  wayward-hearted  Col- 
lins leant  his  head  upon  their  crazy  tables ;  prig- 
gish Benjamin  Franklin  ;  Savage,  the  wrong- 
headed,  much  troubled,  when  he  could  afford  any 
softer  bed  than  a  doorstep  ;  young  Bloomfield, 
"  Bobby  "  Burns,  Hogarth,  Watts  the  engineer — 
the  roll  is  endless.  Ever  since  the  habitations 
of  men  were  reared  two  stories  high,  has  the 
garret  been  the  nursery  of  genius. 

No  one  who   honors   the  aristocracy  of   mind 
can  feel  ashamed  of  acquaintanceship  with  them. 


ON  '' FURNISHED  apartments:*  16} 

Their  damp-stained  walls  are  sacred  to  the  mem- 
ory of  noble  names.  If  all  the  wisdom  of  the 
world  and  all  its  art — all  the  spoils  that  it  has 
won  from  Nature,  all  the  fire  that  it  has  snatched 
from  Heaven — were  gathered  together  and 
divided  into  heaps,  and  we  could  point  and  say, 
for  instance  : — These  mighty  truths  were  flashed 
forth  in  the  brilliant  salon,  amidst  the  ripple  of 
light  laughter  and  the  sparkle  of  bright  eyes;  and 
This  deep  knowledge  was  dug  up  in  the  quiet 
study,  where  the  bust  of  Pallas  looks  serenely 
down  on  the  leather-scented  shelves ;  and  This 
heap  belongs  to  the  crowded  street  ;  and  That 
to  the  daisied  field, — the  heap  that  would  tower 
up  high  above  the  rest,  as  a  mountain  above  hills, 
would  be  the  one  at  which  we  should  look  up 
and  say  :  this  noblest  pile  of  all — these  glorious 
paintings  and  this  wondrous  music,  these  trumpet 
words,  these  solemn  thoughts,  these  daring  deeds, 
they  were  forged  and  fashioned  amidst  misery 
and  pain  in  the  sordid  squalor  of  the  city  garret. 
There,  from  their  eyries,  while  the  world  heaved 
and  throbbed  below,  the  kings  of  men  sent  forth 
their  eagle  thoughts  to  wing  their  flight  through 
the  ages.     There,  where  the  sunlight  streaming 


l68  ON  "FURNISHED  APARTMENTS:' 

through  the  broken  panes,  fell  on  rotting  boards 
and  crumbling  walls;  there,  from  their  lofty 
thrones,  those  rag-clothed  Joves  have  hurled  their 
thunderbolts  and  shaken,  before  now,  the  earth 
to  its  foundations. 

Huddle  them  up  in  your  lumber-rooms,  oh, 
world  !  Shut  them  fast  in,  and  turn  the  key  of 
poverty  upon  them.  Weld  close  the  bars,  and 
let  them  fret  their  hero  lives  away  within  the 
narrow  cage.  Leave  them  there  to  starve,  and 
rot,  and  die.  Laugh  at  the  frenzied  beatings  of 
their  hands  against  the  door.  Roll  onward  in 
your  dust  and  noise,  and  pass  them  by,  for- 
gotten. 

But  take  care,  lest  they  turn  and  sting  you. 
All  do  not,  like  the  fabled  Phoenix,  warble  sweet 
melodies  in  their  agony;  sometimes  they  spit 
venom — venom  you  must  breathe  whether  you 
will  or  no,  for  you  cannot  seal  their  mouths, 
though  you  may  fetter  their  limbs.  You  can 
lock  the  door  upon  them,  but  they  burst  open 
their  shaky  lattices,  and  call  out  over  the  house- 
tops so  that  men  cannot  but  hear.  You 
hounded  wild  Rousseau  into  the  meanest  garret 
of  the  Rue  St.  Jacques,  and  jeered  at  his  angry 


ON  ''FURNISHED  APARTMENTS:'  169 

shrieks.  But  the  thin,  piping  tones  swelled,  a 
hundred  years  later,  into  the  sullen  roar  of  the 
French  Revolution,  and  civilization  to  this  day- 
is  quivering  to  the  reverberations  of  his  voice. 

As  for  myself,  however,  I  like  an  attic.  Not 
to  live  in :  as  residences  they  are  inconvenient. 
There  is  too  much  getting  up  and  down  stairs 
connected  with  them  to  please  me.  It  puts  one 
unpleasantly  in  mind  of  the  tread-mill.  The 
form  of  the  ceiling  offers  too  many  facilities  for 
bumping  your  head,  and  too  few  for  shaving. 
And  the  note  of  the  tom  cat,  as  he  sings  to  his 
love  in  the  stilly  night,  outside  on  the  tiles, 
becomes  positively  distasteful  when  heard  so 
near. 

No,  for  living  in,  give  me  a  suite  of  rooms  on 
the  first  floor  of  a  Piccadilly  mansion  (I  wish 
somebody  would !) ;  but,  for  thinking  in,  let  me 
have  an  attic  up  ten  flights  of  stairs  in  the 
densest  quarter  of  the  city.  I  have  all  Herr 
Teufelsdrockh's  affection  for  attics.  There  is  a 
sublimity  about  their  loftiness.  I  love  to  *'  sit 
at  ease  and  look  down  upon  the  wasps*  nest 
beneath";  to  listen  to  the  dull  murmur  of  the 
human    tide,    ebbing    and    flowing    ceaselessly 


1 70  OiV  "  FURNISHED  APAR  TMENTS. " 

through  the  narrow  streets  and  lanes  below. 
How  small  men  seem,  how  like  a  swarm  of  ants 
sweltering  in  endless  confusion  on  their  tiny 
hill !  How  petty  seems  the  work  on  which  they 
are  hurrying  and  skurrying !  How  childishly 
they  jostle  against  one  another,  and  turn  to  snarl 
and  scratch  !  They  jabber  and  screech  and 
curse,  but  their  puny  voices  do  not  reach  up 
here.  They  fret,  and  fume,  and  rage,  and  pant, 
and  die  ;  "  but  I,  mein  Werther,  sit  above  it  all ; 
I  am  alone  with  the  stars." 

The  most  extraordinary  attic  I  ever  came 
across  was  one  a  friend  and  I  once  shared,  many 
years  ago.  Of  all  eccentrically  planned  things, 
from  Bradshaw  to  the  maze  at  Hampton  Court, 
that  room  was  the  eccentricalist.  The  architect 
who  designed  it  must  have  been  a  genius,  though 
I  cannot  help  thinking  that  his  talents  would 
have  been  better  employed  in  contriving  puzzles 
than  in  shaping  human  habitations.  No  figure 
in  Euclid  could  give  any  idea  of  that  apartment. 
It  contained  seven  corners,  two  of  the  walls 
sloped  to  a  point,  and  the  window  was  just  over 
the  fireplace.  The  only  possible  position  for  the 
bedstead  was  between    the    door   and    the    cup. 


ON  ''FURNISHED  APARTMENTSr  171 

board.  To  get  anything  out  of  the  cupboard, 
we  had  to  scramble  over  the  bed,  and  a  large 
percentage  of  the  various  commodities  thus 
obtained  were  absorbed  by  the  bedclothes. 
Indeed,  so  many  things  were  spilled,  and 
dropped  upon  the  bed  that,  towards  night  time, 
it  had  become  a  sort  of  small  co-operative  store. 
Coal  was  what  it  always  had  most  in  stock.  We 
used  to  keep  our  coal  in  the  bottom  part  of  the 
cupboard,  and,  when  any  was  wanted,  we  had  to 
climb  over  the  bed,  fill  a  shovelful,  and  then 
crawl  back.  It  was  an  exciting  moment  when 
we  reached  the  middle  of  the  bed.  We  would 
hold  our  breath,  fix  our  eyes  upon  the  shovel, 
and  poise  ourselves  for  the  last  move.  The  next 
instant,  we,  and  the  coals,  and  the  shovel,  and 
the  bed  would  be  all  mixed  up  together. 

I've  heard  of  the  people  going  into  raptures 
over  beds  of  coal.  We  slept  in  one  every  night, 
and  were  not  in  the  least  stuck  up  about  it. 

But  our  attic,  unique  though  it  was,  had  by  no 
means  exhausted  the  architect's  sense  of  humor. 
The  arrangement  of  the  whole  house  was  a  mar- 
vel of  originality.  All  the  doors  opened  out- 
wards, so  that  if  any  one  wanted  to  leave  a  room 


172  ON  ''  FURNISHED  AFAR TMENTSr 

at  the  same  moment  that  you  were  coming  down- 
stairs it  was  unpleasant  for  you.  There  was  no 
ground-floor,  its  ground-floor  belonged  to  a  house 
in  the  next  court,  and  the  front  door  opened  di- 
rect upon  a  flight  of  stairs  leading  down  to  the 
cellar.  Visitors,  on  entering  the  house,  would 
suddenly  shoot  past  the  person  who  had  an- 
swered the  door  to  them,  and  disappear  down 
these  stairs.  Those  of  a  nervous  temperament 
used  to  imagine  that  it  was  a  trap  laid  for  them, 
and  would  shout  murder,  as  they  lay  on  their 
backs  at  the  bottom,  till  somebody  came  and 
picked  them  up. 

It  is  a  long  time  ago,  now,  that  I  last  saw  the 
inside  of  an  attic.  I  have  tried  various  floors 
since,  but  I  have  not  found  that  they  have  made 
much  difference  to  me.  Life  tastes  much  the 
same,  whether  we  quaff  it  from  a  golden  goblet, 
or  drink  it  out  of  a  stone  mug.  The  hours  come 
laden  with  the  same  mixture  of  joy  and  sorrow, 
no  matter  where  we  wait  for  them.  A  waistcoat 
of  broadcloth  or  of  fustian  is  alike  to  an  aching 
heart,  and  we  laugh  no  merrier  on  velvet  cush- 
ions than  we  did  on  wooden  chairs.  Often  have 
I  sighed  in  those  low-ceiling'd  rooms,  yet  disap- 


ON  "  FURNISHED  A  PAR  TMENTS."  1 7  3 

pointments  have  come  neither  less  nor  lighter 
since  I  quitted  them.  Life  works  upon  a  com- 
pensating balance,  and  the  happiness  we  gain  in 
one  direction  we  lose  in  another.  As  our  means 
increase,  so  do  our  desires  ;  and  we  ever  stand 
midway  between  the  two.  When  we  reside  in  an 
attic,  we  enjoy  a  supper  of  fried  fish  and  stout. 
When  we  occupy  the  first  floor,  it  takes  an  elab- 
orate dinner  at  the  ''  Continental  "  to  give  us  the 
same  amount;  of  satisfaction. 


ON  DRESS  AND  DEPOR  TMENT, 

nr^HEY  say — people  who  ought  to  be  ashamed 
•*•  of  themselves  do — that  the  consciousness 
of  being  well  dressed  imparts  a  blissfulness  to 
the  human  heart  that  religion  is  powerless  to  be- 
stow. 1  am  afraid  these  cynical  persons  are 
sometimes  correct.  I  know  that  when  I  was  a 
very  young  man  (many,  many  years  ago,  as  the 
story-books  say),  and  wanted  cheering  up,  I  used 
to  go  and  dress  myself  in  all  my  best  clothes.  If  I 
had  been  annoyed  in  any  manner — if  my  washer- 
woman had  discharged  me,  for  instance ;  or  my 
blank  verse  poem  had  been  returned  for  the  tenth 
time,  with  the  editor's  compliments,  "and  re- 
grets that  owing  to  want  of  space  he  is  unable  to 
avail  himself  of  kind  offer";  or  I  had  been 
snubbed  by  the  woman  I  loved  as  man  never 
loved  before. By  the  way,  it's  really  extraor- 
dinary what  a  variety  of  ways  of  loving  there 
must  be.  We  all  do  it  as  it  was  never  done  be- 
fore. I  don't  know  how  our  great-grandchildren 
174 


ON  DRESS  AND  DEPORTMENT,  175 

will  manage.  They  will  have  to  do  it  on  their 
heads  by  their  time,  if  they  persist  in  not  clash- 
ing with  any  previous  method. 

Well,  as  I  was  saying,  when  these  unpleasant 
sort  of  things  happened,  and  I  felt  crushed,  I  put 
on  all  my  best  clothes,  and  went  out.  It  brought 
back  my  vanishing  self-esteem.  In  a  glossy  new 
hat,  and  a  pair  of  trousers  with  a  fold  down  the 
front  (carefully  preserved  by  keeping  them  under 
the  bed — I  don't  mean  on  the  floor,  you  know, 
but  between  the  bed  and  the  mattress),  I  felt  I 
was  somebody,  and  that  there  were  other  wash- 
erwomen :  aye,  and  even  other  girls  to  love,  and 
who  would  perhaps  appreciate  a  clever,  good- 
looking  young  fellow.  /  didn't  care  :  that  was 
my  reckless  way.  I  would  make  love  to  other 
maidens,  I  felt  that  in  those  clothes  I  could  do  it. 

They  have  a  wonderful  deal  to  do  with  court- 
ing, clothes  have.  It  is  half  the  battie.  At  all 
events,  the  young  man  thinks  so,  and  it  generally 
takes  him  a  couple  of  hours  to  get  himself  up  for 
the  occasion.  His  first  half-hour  is  occupied  in 
trying  to  decide  whether  to  wear  his  light  suit 
with  a  cane  and  drab  billycock,  or  his  black  tails 
with  a  chimney-pot  hat  and  his  new  umbrella. 


176  ON  DRESS  AND  DEPOR  TMENT, 

He  is  sure  to  be  unfortunate  in  either  decision. 
If  he  wears  his  h'ght  suit  and  takes  the  stick,  it 
Comes  on  to  rain,  and  he  reaches  the  house  in  a 
damp  and  muddy  condition,  and  spends  the 
evening  trying  to  hide  his  boots.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  decides  in  favor  of  the  top  hat 
and  umbrella — nobody  would  ever  dream  of 
going  out  in  a  top  hat  without  an  umbrella :  it 
would  be  like  letting  Baby  (bless  it)  toddle  out 
without  its  nurse.  How  I  do  hate  a  top  hat ! 
One  lasts  me  a  very  long  while,  I  can  tell  you. 
I  only  wear  it  when — well,  never  mind  when  I 
wear  it.  It  lasts  me  a  very  long  while.  I've  had 
my  present  one  five  years.  It  was  rather  old- 
fashioned  last  summer,  but  the  shape  has  come 
round  again  now,  and  I  look  quite  stylish. 

But  to  return  to  our  young  man  and  his  court- 
ing. If  he  starts  off  with  the  top  hat  and  um- 
brella, the  afternoon  turns  out  fearfully  hot,  and 
the  perspiration  takes  all  the  soap  out  of  his 
moustache,  and  converts  the  beautifully-arranged 
curl  over  his  forehead  into  a  limp  wisp,  resem- 
bling a  lump  of  seaweed.  The  Fates  are  never 
favorable  to  the  poor  wretch.  If  he  does  by  any 
chance  reach  the  door  in  proper  condition,  she 


ON'  DRESS  AND  DEPORTMENT,  177 

has  gone  out  with  her  cousin,  and  won't  be  back 
till  late. 

How  a  young  lover,  made  ridiculous  by  the 
gawkiness  of  modern  costume,  must  envy  the 
picturesque  gallants  of  seventy  years  ago ! 
Look  at  them  (on  the  Christmas  cards),  with 
their  curly  hair  and  natty  hats,  their  well-shaped 
legs  encased  in  smalls,  their  dainty  Hessian 
boots,  their  ruffling  frills,  their  canes,  and  dang- 
ling seals.  No  wonder  the  little  maiden  in  the 
big  poke  bonnet  and  the  light  blue  sash,  casts 
down  her  eyes,  and  is  completely  won.  Men 
could  win  hearts  in  clothes  like  that.  But  what 
can  you  expect  from  baggy  trousers  and  a 
monkey  jacket? 

Clothes  have  more  effect  upon  us  than  we 
imagine.  Our  deportment  depends  upon  our 
dress.  Make  a  man  get  into  seedy,  worn-out 
rags,  and  he  will  skulk  along  with  his  head  hang- 
ing down,  like  a  man  going  out  to  fetch  his  own 
supper  beer.  But  deck  out  the  same  article  in 
gorgeous  raiment  and  fine  linen,  and  he  will  strut 
down  the  main  thoroughfare,  swinging  his  cane, 
and  looking  at  the  girls,  as  perky  as  a  bantam 
cock. 


17^  ON  DRESS  AND  DEPORTMENT. 

Clothes  alter  our  very  nature.  A  man  could 
not  help  being  fierce  and  daring  with  a  plume  in 
his  bonnet,  a  dagger  in  his  belt,  and  a  lot  of  puffy 
white  things  all  down  his  sleeves.  But,  in  an 
ulster,  he  wants  to  get  behind  a  lamp-post  and 
call  police. 

I  am  quite  ready  to  admit  that  you  can  find 
sterHng  merit,  honest  worth,  deep  affection,  and 
all  such  like  virtues  of  the  roast-beef  and  plum- 
pudding  school,  as  much,  and  perhaps  more,  under 
broadcloth  and  tweed  as  ever  existed  beneath  silk 
and  velvet ;  but  the  spirit  of  that  knightly  chiv- 
alry, that  "rode  a  tilt  for  lady's  love,"  and  "fought 
for  lady's  smiles,"  needs  the  clatter  of  steel  and 
the  rustle  of  plumes  to  summon  it  from  its  grave 
between  the  dusty  folds  of  tapestry  and  under- 
neath the  musty  leaves  of  moldering  chronicles. 

The  world  must  be  getting  old,  I  think;  it 
dresses  so  very  soberly  now.  We  have  been 
through  the  infant  period  of  humanity,  when  wc 
used  to  run  about  with  nothing  on  but  a  long, 
loose  robe,  and  liked  to  have  our  feet  bare.  And 
then  came  the  rough,  barbaric  age,  the  boyhood 
of  our  race.  We  didn't  care  what  we  wore  then, 
but  thought  it  nice  to  tattoo  ourselves  all  over, 


ON  DRESS  AND  DEPORTMENT.  179 

and  we  never  did  our»hair.  And,  after  that,  the 
world  grew  into  a  young  man,  and  became  fop- 
pish. It  decked  itself  in  flowing  curls  and  scarlet 
doublets,  and  went  courting,  and  bragging,  and 
bouncing — making  a  brave  show. 

But  all  those  merry,  foohsh  days  of  youth  are 
gone,  and  we  are  very  sober,  very  solemn — and 
very  stupid,  some  say — now.  The  world  is  a 
grave,  middle-aged  gentleman  in  this  nineteenth 
century,  and  would  be  shocked  to  see  itself  with 
a  bit  of  finery  on.  So  it  dresses  in  black  coats 
and  trousers,  and  black  hats,  and  black  boots,  and, 
dear  me,  it  is  such  a  very  respectable  gentleman — 
to  think  it  could  ever  have  gone  gadding  about  as 
a  troubadour  or  a  knight-errant,  dressed  in  all 
those  fancy  colors !  Ah,  well !  we  are  more  sensi- 
ble in  this  age. 

Or,  at  least,  we  think  ourselves  so.  It  is  a  gen- 
eral theory  nowadays  that  sense  and  dullness  go 
together. 

Goodness  is  another  quality  that  always  goes 
with  blackness.  Very  good  people  indeed,  you 
will  notice,  dress  altogether  in  black,  even  to 
gloves  and  neckties,  and  they  will  probably  take 
to  black  shirts  before  long.     Medium  goods  in- 


l8o  ON  DRESS  AND  DEPORTMENT. 

dulge  in  light  trousers  on  week-days,  and  some  of 
them  even  go  so  far  as  to  wear  fancy  waistcoats. 
On  the  other  hand,  people  who  care  nothing  for 
a  future  state  go  about  in  light  suits;  and  there 
have  been  known  wretches  so  abandoned  as  to 
wear  a  white  hat.  Such  people,  however,  are 
never  spoken  of  in  genteel  society,  and  perhaps  I 
ought  not  to  have  referred  to  them  here. 

By  the  way,  talking  of  light  suits,  have  you 
ever  noticed  how  people  stare  at  you  the  first 
time  you  go  out  in  a  new  light  suit?  They  do 
not  notice  it  so  much  afterwards.  The  popula- 
tion of  London  have  got  accustomed  to  it  by  the 
third  time  you  wear  it.  I  say  "y^^/'  because  I 
am  not  speaking  from  my  own  experience.  I  do 
not  wear  such  things  at  all  myself.  As  I  said, 
only  sinful  people  do  so. 

I  wish,  though,  it  were  not  so,  and  that  one 
could  be  good,  and  respectable,  and  sensible  with- 
out making  one's-self  a  guy.  I  look  in  the  glass 
sometimes  at  my  two  long,  cylindrical  bags  (so 
picturesquely  rugged  about  the  knees),  my  stand- 
up  collar,  and  billycock  hat,  and  wonder  what  right 
I  have  to  go  about  making  God's  world  hideous. 
Then  wild  and   wicked    thoughts  come   into  my 


ON  DRESS  AND  DEPORTMENT.  i8l 

heart.  I  don't  want  to  be  good  and  respectable. 
(I  never  can  be  sensible,  I'm  told;  so  that  don't 
matter.)  I  want  to  put  on  lavender-colored 
tights,  with  red  velvet  breeches  and  a  green  doub- 
let, slashed  with  yellow;  to  have  a  light  blue  silk 
cloak  on  my  shoulder,  and  a  black  eagle's  plume 
waving  from  my  hat,  and  a  big  sword,  and  a  fal- 
con, and  a  lance,  and  a  prancing  horse,  so  that  I 
might  go  about  and  gladden  the  eyes  of  the 
people.  Why  should  we  all  try  to  look  like  ants, 
crawling  over  a  dust-heap?  Why  shouldn't  we 
dress  a  little  gayly?  I  am  sure,  if  we  did,  we 
should  be  happier.  True,  it  is  a  little  thing,  but 
we  are  a  little  race,  and  what  is  the  use  of  our  pre- 
tending otherwise,  and  spoiling  fun?  Let  philo- 
sophers get  themselves  up  like  old  crows  if  they 
like.     But  let  me  be  a  butterfly. 

Women,  at  all  events,  ought  to  dress  prettily. 
It  is  their  duty.  They  are  the  flowers  of  the 
earth,  and  were  meant  to  show  it  up.  We  abuse 
them  a  good  deal,  we  men ;  but,  goodness  knows, 
the  old  world  would  be  dull  enough  without  their 
dresses  and  fair  faces.  How  they  brighten  up 
every  place  they  come  into !  What  a  sunny  com- 
motion they — relations,   of  course — make  in   our 


1 82  ON  DRESS  AND  DEPORTMENT. 

dingy  bachelor  chambers !  and  what  a  delightful 
litter  their  ribbons  and  laces,  and  gloves  and  hats, 
and  parasols  and  'kerchiefs  make !  It  is  as  if 
a  wandering  rainbow  had  dropped  in  to  pay  us  a 
visit. 

It  is  one  of  the  chief  charms  of  the  summer,  to 
my  mind,  the  way  our  little  maids  come  out  in 
pretty  colors.  I  like  to  see  the  pink  and  blue  and 
white,  glancing  between  the  trees,  dotting  the 
green  fields,  and  flashing  back  the  sunlight.  You 
can  see  the  bright  colors  such  a  long  way  off. 
There  are  four  white  dresses  climbing  a  hill  in 
front  of  my  window  now.  I  can  see  them  dis- 
tinctly, though  it  is  three  miles  away.  I  thought, 
at  first,  they  were  milestones  out  for  a  lark.  It's 
so  nice  to  be  able  to  see  the  darlings  a  long  way 
off.  Especially  if  they  happen  to  be  your  wife 
and  your  mother-in-law. 

Talking  of  fields  and  milestones,  reminds  me 
that  I  want  to  say,  in  all  seriousness,  a  few  words 
about  women's  boots.  The  women  of  these 
islands  all  wear  boots  too  big  for  them.  They 
can  never  get  a  boot  to  fit.  The  bootmakers  do 
not  keep  sizes  small  enough. 

Over  and  over  again  have  I  known  women  sit 


O.V  DRESS  AND  DEPORTMENT.  183 

down  on  the  top  rail  of  a  stile,  and  declare  they 
could  not  go  a  step  farther,  because  their  boots 
hurt  them  so ;  and  it  has  always  been  the  same 
complaint — too  big. 

It  is  time  this  state  of  things  was  altered.  In 
the  name  of  the  husbands  and  fathers  of  Eng- 
land, I  call  upon  the  bootmakers  to  reform.  Our 
wives,  our  daughters,  and  our  cousins  are  not  to 
be  lamed  and  tortured  with  impunity.  Why  can- 
not "narrow  twos"  be  kept  more  in  stock?  that  is 
the  size  I  find  most  women  take. 

The  waistband  is  another  item  of  feminine 
apparel  that  is  always  too  big.  The  dressmakers 
make  these  things  so  loose  that  the  hooks  and 
eyes  by  which  they  are  faster.ed  burst  oii,  every 
now  and  then,  with  a  report  like  thunder. 

Why  women  suffer  these  wrongs — why  they  do 
not  insist  in  having  their  clothes  made  small 
enough  for  them,  I  cannot  conceive.  It  can 
hardly  be  that  they  are  disinclined  to  trouble 
themselves  about  matters  of  mere  dress,  for  dress 
is  the  one  subject  that  they  really  do  think  about. 
It  is  the  only  topic  they  ever  get  thoroughly 
interested  in,  and  they  talk  about  it  all  day  long. 
If  you    see  two   women    together,  you  may    bet 


1 84  ON  DRESS  AND  DEPORTMENT. 

vour  bottom  dollar  they  are  discussing  their  own 
or  their  friend's  clothes.  You  notice  a  couple  of 
child-like  beings,  conversing  by  a  window,  and 
you  wonder  what  sweet,  helpful  words  are  falling 
from  their  sainted  hps.  So  you  move  nearer,  and 
then  you  hear  one  say — 

"So  I  took  in  the  waistband,  and  let  out  a 
seam,  and  it  fits  beautifully  now." 

"Well,"  says  the  other,  "I  shall  wear  my  plum- 
colored  body  to  the  Jones's,  with  a  yellow  plas- 
tron ;  and  they've  got  some  lovely  gloves  at  Put- 
tick's,  only  one  and  elevenpence." 

I  went  for  a  drive  through  a  part  of  Derbyshire 
once,  with  a  couple  of  ladies.  It  was  a  beauti- 
ful bit  of  country,  and  they  enjoyed  themselves 
immensely.  They  talked  dressmaking  the  whole 
time. 

"Pretty  view,  that,"  I  would  say,  waving  m}- 
umbrella  round.  "Look  at  those  blue,  distant 
hills!  That  little  white  speck,  nestling  in  the 
woods,  is  Chatsworth,  and  over  there — " 

"Yes,  very  pretty  indeed,"  one  would  reply, 
"Well,  why  not  get  a  yard  of  sarsenet?" 

"What,  and  leave  the  skirt  exactly  as  it  is?" 

"Certainly.     What  place  d'ye  call  this?" 


ON  DRESS  AND  DEPORTMENT.  185 

Then  I  would  draw  their  attention  to  the  fresh 
beauties  that  kept  sweeping  into  view,  and  they 
would  glance  round,  and  say  "charming," 
"sweetly  pretty,"  and  immediately  go  off  into 
raptures  over  each  other's  pocket-handkerchiefs, 
and  mourn  with  one  another  over  the  decadence 
of  cambric  frilling. 

I  believe  if  two  women  were  cast  together  upon 
a  desert  island,  they  would  spend  each  day  argu- 
ing the  respective  merits  of  sea-shells  and  bird's 
eggs,  considered  as  trimmings,  and  would  have  a 
new  fashion  in  fig  leaves  every  month. 

Very  young  men  think  a  good  deal  about 
clothes,  but  they  don't  talk  about  them  to  each 
other.  They  would  not  find  much  encourage- 
ment. A  fop  is  not  a  favorite  with  his  own  sex. 
Indeed,  he  gets  a  good  deal  more  abuse  from 
them  than  is  necessary.  His  is  a  harmless  fail- 
ing, and  it  soon  wears  out.  Besides,  a  man  who 
has  no  foppery  at  twenty  will  be  a  slatternly, 
dirty-collar,  unbrushed-coat  man  at  forty.  A 
little  foppishness  in  a  young  man  is  good ;  it  is 
human.  I  like  to  see  a  young  cock  ruffle  his 
feathers,  stretch  his  neck,  and  crow  as  if  the 
whole   world   belonged   to   him.     I   don't  like  a 


1 86  ON  DRESS  AND  DEPORTMENT. 

modest,  retiring  man.  Nobody  does — not  really, 
however  much  they  may  prate  about  modest 
worth,  and  other  things  they  do  not  understand. 

A  meek  deportment  is  a  great  mistake  in  the 
world.  Uriah  Heap's  father  was  a  very  poor 
judge  of  human  nature,  or  he  would  not  have 
told  his  son,  as  he  did,  that  people  liked  humble- 
ness. There  is  nothing  annoys  them  more,  as  a 
rule.  Rows  are  half  the  fun  of  life,  and  you 
can't  have  rows  with  humble,  meek-answered  indi- 
viduals. They  turn  away  our  wrath,  and  that  is 
just  what  we  do  not  want.  We  want  to  let  it 
out.  We  have  worked  ourselves  up  into  a  state 
of  exhilarating  fury,  and  then  just  as  we  are 
anticipating  the  enjoyment  of  a  vigorous  set  to, 
they  spoil  all  our  plans  with  their  exasperating 
humility. 

Xantippe's  life  must  have  been  one  long 
misery,  tied  to  that  calmly  irritating  man,  Socra- 
tes. Fancy  a  married  woman  doomed  to  live  on 
from  day  to  day  without  one  single  quarrel  with 
her  husband!  A  man  ought  to  humor  his  wife 
in  these  things.  Heaven  knows  their  lives  are 
dull  enough,  poor  girls.  They  have  none  of  the 
enjoyments  we   have.     They   go  to   no  political 


ON  DRESS  AND  DEPORTMENT,  187 

meetings;  they  may  not  even  belong  to  the  loca? 
amateur  parliament;  they  are  excluded  from 
smoking  carriages  on  the  Metropolitan  railway, 
and  they  never  see  a  comic  paper — or  if  they  do, 
they  do  not  know  it  is  comic :  nobody  tells  them. 

Surely,  with  existence  such  a  dreary  blank  for 
them  as  this,  we  might  provide  a  little  row  for 
their  amusement  now  and  then,  even  if  we  do  not 
feel  inclined  for  it  ourselves.  A  really  sensible 
man  does  so,  and  is  loved  accordingly,  for  it  is 
little  acts  of  kindness  such  as  this  that  go  straight 
to  a  woman's  heart.  It  is  such  like  proofs  of  lov- 
ing self-sacrifice  that  make  her  tell  her  female 
friends  what  a  good  husband  he  was — after  he  is 
dead. 

Yes,  poor  Xantippe  must  have  had  a  hard 
time  of  it.  The  bucket  episode  was  particularly 
sad  for  her.  Poor  woman !  she  did  think  she 
would  rouse  him  up  a  bit  with  that.  She  had 
taken  the  trouble  to  fill  the  bucket,  perhaps  been 
a  long  way  to  get  specially  dirty  water.  And  she 
waited  for  him.  And  then  to  be  met  in  such  a 
way,  after  all !  Most  likely  she  sat  down,  and 
had  a  good  cry  afterwards.  It  must  have  seemed 
all  so  hopeless  to  the  poor  child ;  and,  for  all  we 


1 88  ON  DRESS  AND  DEPORTMENT, 

know,  she  had  no  mother  to  whom  she  could  go 
and  abuse  him. 

What  was  it  to  her  that  her  husband  was  a 
great  philosopher?  Great  philosophy  don't 
count  in   married  life. 

There  was  a  very  good  little  boy  once  who 
wanted  to  go  to  sea.  And  the  captain  asked 
him  what  he  could  do.  He  said  he  could  do  the 
multiplication  table  backwards,  and  paste  sea- 
weed in  a  book  ;  that  he  knew  how  many  times 
the  word  "  begat "  occurred  in  the  Old  Testa- 
ment ;  and  could    recite  *•  The  Boy  stood  on  the 

Burning    Deck,'*    and    Wordsworth's    **  We   are 

S»» 
even. 

"  Werry  good — werry  good,  indeed,"  said  the 
man  of  the  sea,  "  and  ken  yer  kerry  coals  .^" 

It  is  just  the  same  when  you  want  to  marry. 
Great  ability  is  not  required  so  much  as  little 
usefulness.  Brains  are  at  a  discount  in  the 
married  state.  There  is  no  demand  for  them,  no 
appreciation  even.  Our  wives  sum  us  up  accord- 
ing to  a  standard  of  their  own,  in  which  bril- 
liancy of  intellect  obtains  no  marks.  Your  lady 
and  mistress  is  not  at  all  impressed  by  your 
cleverness   and    talent,   my    dear   reader — not    in 


ON  DRESS  AND  DEPORTMENT.  189 

the  slightest.  Give  her  a  man  who  can  do  an 
errand  neatly,  without  attempting  to  use  his  own 
judgment  over  it,  or  any  damned  nonsense  of 
that  kind ;  and  who  can  be  trusted  to  hold  a 
child  the  right  way  up,  and  not  make  himself 
objectionable  whenever  there  is  lukewarm  mut- 
ton for  dinner.  That  is  the  sort  of  a  husband  a 
sensible  woman  likes;  not  one  of  your  scientific 
or  literary  nuisances,  who  go  upsetting  the 
whole  house,  and  putting  everybody  out  with 
their  foolishness. 


1 


I 


ON  MEMORY. 

•*  I  remember,  I  remember, 
In  the  days  of  chill  November, 
How  the  blackbird  on  the " 

FORGET  the  rest.     It  is  the  beginning  of 

the  first  piece  of  poetry  I  ever  learnt ;  for 

••  Hey,  diddle  diddle. 
The  cat  and  the  fiddle," 

I  take  no  note  of,  it  being  of  a  frivolous  charac- 
ter, and  lacking  in  the  qualities  of  true  poetry.  I 
collected  fourpence  by  the  recital  of  "  I  remember, 
I  remember."  I  knew  it  was  fourpence,  because 
they  told  me  that  if  I  kept  it  until  I  got  twopence 
more  I  should  have  sixpence,  which  argument, 
albeit  undeniable,  moved  me  not,  and  the  money 
was  squandered,  to  the  best  of  my  recollection, 
on  the  very  next  morning,  although  upon  what 
memory  is  a  blank. 

That  is  just  the  way  with  Memory  ;  nothing 
that  she  brings  to  us  is  complete.  She  is  a  wilful 
child ;    all   her   toys    are    broken.      I    remember 

IQO 


ON  MEMORY,  1 91 

tumbling  into  a  huge  dusthole,  when  a  very 
small  boy,  but  I  have  not  the  faintest  recollection 
of  ever  getting  out  again  ;  and,  if  memory  were 
all  we  had  to  trust  to,  I  should  be  compelled  to 
believe  I  was  there  still.  At  another  time — some 
years  later — I  was  assisting  at  an  exceedingly 
interesting  love  scene  ;  but  the  only  thing  about 
it  I  can  call  to  mind  distinctly  is  that,  at  the  most 
critical  moment,  somebody  suddenly  opened  the 
door  and  said  :  "  Emily,  you're  wanted,"  in  a 
sepulchral  tone,  that  gave  one  the  idea  the  police 
had  come  for  her.  All  the  tender  words  she  said 
to  me,  and  all  the  beautiful  things  I  said  to  her, 
are  utterly  forgotten. 

Life,  altogether,  is  but  a  crumbling  ruin,  when 
we  turn  to  look  behind  :  a  shattered  column  here, 
where  a  massive  portal  stood  ;  the  broken  shaft 
of  a  window  to  mark  my  lady's  bower ;  and  a 
mouldering  heap  of  blackened  stones  where  the 
glowing  flames  once  leapt,  and,  over  all,  the  tinted 
lichen  and  the  ivy  clinging  green. 

For  everything  looms  pleasant  through  the 
softening  haze  of  time.  Even  the  sadness  that  is 
past  seems  sweet.  Our  boyish  days  look  very 
merry  to   us  now,  all  nutting,  hoop,  and  ginger- 


192  ON  MEMORY, 

bread.  The  snubblngs  and  toothaches  and  the 
Latin  verbs  are  all  forgotten — the  Latin  verbs 
especially.  And  we  fancy  we  were  very  happy 
when  we  were  hobbledehoys,  and  loved  ;  and  we 
wish  that  we  could  love  again.  We  never  think 
of  the  heartaches,  or  the  sleepless  nights,  or  the 
hot  dryness  of  our  throats,  when  she  said  she 
could  never  be  anything  to  us  but  a  sister — as  if 
any  man  wanted  more  sisters  ' 

Yes,  it  is  the  brightness,  not  the  darkness,  that 
we  see  when  we  look  back.  The  sunshine  casts 
no  shadows  on  the  past.  The  road  that  we  have 
traversed  stretches  very  fair  behind  us.  We  see 
not  the  sharp  stones.  We  dwell  but  on  the  roses 
by  the  wayside,  and  the  strong  briars  that  stung 
us  are,  to  our  distant  eyes,  but  gentle  tendrils 
Waving  in  the  wind.  God  be  thanked  that  it  is 
so — that  the  ever-lengthening  chain  of  memory 
has  only  pleasant  links,  and  that  the  bitterness 
and  sorrow  of  to-day  are  smiled  at  on  the 
morrow. 

It  seems  as  though  the  brightest  side  of  every- 
thing were  also  its  highest  and  best,  so  that,  as 
our  little  lives  sink  back  behind  us  into  the  dark 
sea  of  forgetfulness,  all  that  which  is  the  lightest 


ON  MEMORY.  193 

and  the  most  gladsome  is  the  last  to  sink,  and 
stands  above  the  waters,  long  in  sight,  when  the 
angry  thoughts  and  smarting  pain  are  buried 
deep  below  the  waves  and  trouble  us  no  more. 

It  is  this  glamour  of  the  past,  I  suppose,  that 
makes  old  folk  talk  so  much  nonsense  about  the 
days  when  they  were  young.  The  world  appears 
to  have  been  a  very  superior  sort  of  place  then, 
and  things  were  more  like  what  they  ought  to  be. 
Boys  were  boys  then,  and  girls  were  very  differ- 
ent. Also  winters  were  something  like  winters, 
and  summers  not  at  all  the  wretched  things  we 
get  put  off  with  nowadays.  As  for  the  wonder- 
ful deeds  people  did  in  those  times,  and  the 
extraordinary  events  that  happened,  it  takes 
three  strong  men  to  believe  half  of  them. 

I  like  to  hear  one  of  the  old  boys  telling  all 
about  it  to  a  party  of  youngsters  who  he  knows 
cannot  contradict  him.  It  is  odd  if,  after  a 
while,  he  doesn't  swear  that  the  moon  shone 
every  night  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  that  tossing 
mad  bulls  in  a  blanket  was  the  favorite  sport  at 
his  school. 

It  always  has  been,  and  always  will  be  the 
same.     The  old  folk  of  our  grandfathers*  young 


194  ON  MEMORY. 

days  safng  a  song  bearing  exactly  the  same  bur- 
den ;  and  the  young  folk  of  to-day  will  drone  out 
precisely  similar  nonsense  for  the  aggravation  of 
the  next  generation.  "  Oh  give  me  back  the 
good  old  days  of  fifty  years  ago,"  has  been  the 
cry  ever  since  Adam's  fifty-first  birthday.  Take 
up  the  literature  of  1835,  ^"^  you  will  find  the 
poets  and  novelists  asking  for  the  same  impossi- 
ble gift,  as  did  the  German  Minnesingers,  long 
before  them,  and  the  old  Norse  Saga  writers  long 
before  that.  And  for  the  same  thing  sighed  the 
early  prophets  and  the  philosophers  of  ancient 
Greece.  From  all  accounts,  the  world  has  been 
getting  worse  and  worse  ever  since  it  was 
created.  All  I  can  say  is  that  it  must  have  been 
a  remarkably  delightful  place  when  it  was  first 
opened  to  the  public,  for  it  is  very  pleasant, 
even  now,  if  you  only  keep  as  much  as  possible 
in  the  sunshine,  and  take  the  rain  good-tcm- 
peredly. 

Yet  there  is  no  gainsaying  but  v/hat  it  must 
have  been  somewhat  sweeter  in  that  dewy  morn- 
ing of  creation,  when  it  was  young  and  fresh, 
when  the  feet  of  the  tramping  millions  had  not 
trodden    its   grass   to   dust,  nor   the    din    of   the 


ON  MEMORY.  195 

myriad  cities  chased  the  silence  for  ever  away. 
Life  must  have  been  noble  and  solemn  to  those 
free-footed,  loose-robed  fathers  of  the  human 
race,  walking  hand-in-hand  with  God  under  the 
great  sky.  They  lived  in  sun-kissed  tents  amidst 
the  lowing  herds.  They  took  their  simple  wants 
from  the  loving  hand  of  Nature.  They  toiled 
and  talked  and  thought  ;  and  the  great  earth 
rolled  around  in  stillness,  not  yet  laden  with 
trouble  and  wrong. 

Those  days  are  past  now.  The  quiet  child- 
hood of  Humanity,  spent  in  the  far-off  forest 
glades,  and  by  the  murmuring  rivers,  is  gone  for 
ever;  and  human  life  is  deepening  down  to  man- 
hood amidst  tumult,  doubt,  and  hope.  Its  age 
of  restful  peace  is  past.  It  has  its  work  to  finish, 
and  must  hasten  on.  What  that  work  may  be — 
what  this  world's  share  is  in  the  great  Design 
— we  know  not,  though  our  unconscious  hands 
are  helping  to  accomplish  it.  Like  the  tiny  coral 
insect,  working  deep  under  the  dark  waters,  we 
strive  and  struggle  each  for  our  own  little  ends, 
nor  dream  of  the  vast  Fabric  we  are  building  up 
for  God. 

Let  us  have  done  with  vain  regrets  and  long- 


196  ON  MEMORY. 

ings  for  the  days  that  never  will  be  ours  again. 
Our  work  lies  in  front,  not  behind  us ;  and  "  For- 
ward !  **  is  our  motto.  Let  us  not  sit  with  folded 
hands,  gazing  upon  the  past  as  if  it  were  the 
building ;  it  is  but  the  foundation.  Let  us  not 
waste  heart  and  life,  thinking  of  what  might 
have  been,  and  forgetting  the  may-be  that  lies 
before  us.  Opportunities  flit  by  while  we  sit  re- 
gretting the  chances  we  have  lost,  and  the  happi- 
ness that  comes  to  us  we  heed  not,  because  of 
the  happiness  that  is  gone. 

Years  ago,  when  I  used  to  wander  of  an  even- 
ing from  the  fireside  to  the  pleasant  land  of  fain- 
tales,  I  met  a  doughty  knight  and  true.  Many 
dangers  had  he  overcome,  in  many  lands  had 
been  ;  and  all  men  knew  him  for  a  brave  and 
well-tried  knight,  and  one  that  knew  not  fear  ; 
except,  maybe,  upon  such  seasons  when  even  a 
brave  man  might  feel  afraid,  and  yet  not  be 
ashamed.  Now,  as  this  knight,  one  day,  was 
pricking  wearily  along  a  toilsome  road,  his  heart 
misgave  him,  and  was  sore  within  him,  because 
of  the  trouble  of  the  way.  Rocks,  dark  and  of 
a  monstrous  size,  hung  high  above  his  head,  and 
like  enough  it  seemed  unto  the  knight  that  they 


ON  MEMORY.  197 

should  fall,  and  he  lie  low  beneath  them.  Chasms 
there  were  on  either  side,  and  darksome  caves, 
wherein  fierce  robbers  lived,  and  dragons,  very- 
terrible,  whose  jaws  dripped  blood.  And  upon 
the  road  there  hung  a  darkness  as  of  night.  So 
it  came  over  that  good  knight  that  he  would  no 
more  press  forward,  but  seek  another  road,  less 
grievously  beset  with  difficulty  unto  his  gentle 
steed.  But,  when  in  haste  he  turned  and  looked 
behind,  much  marveled  our  brave  knight,  for,  lo  ! 
of  all  the  way  that  he  had  ridden,  there  was 
naught  for  eye  to  see ;  but,  at  his  horse's  heels, 
there  yawned  a  mighty  gulf,  whereof  no  man 
might  ever  spy  the  bottom,  so  deep  was  that 
same  gulf.  Then,  when  Sir  Ghelent  saw  that  of 
going  back  there  was  none,  he  prayed  to  good 
Saint  Cuthbert,  and,  setting  spurs  into  his  steed, 
rode  forward  bravely  and  most  joyously.  And 
naught  harmed  him. 

There  is  no  returning  on  the  road  of  life.  The 
frail  bridge  of  Time,  on  which  we  tread,  sinks 
back  into  eternity  at  every  step  we  take.  The 
past  is  gone  from  us  for  ever.  It  is  gathered  in 
and  garnered.  It  belongs  to  us  no  more.  No 
single   word  can  ever    be  unspoken  ;    no   single 


198  ON  MEMORY. 

step  retraced.  Therefore,  it  beseems  us,  as  true 
knights,  to  prick  on  bravely,  not  idly  weep 
because  we  cannot  now  recall. 

A  new  life  begins  for  us  with  every  second. 
Let  us  go  forward  joyously  to  meet  it.  We  must 
press  on,  whether  we  will  or  no,  and  we  shall 
walk  better  with  our  eyes  before  us  than  with 
them  ever  cast  behind. 

A  friend  came  to  me  the  other  day,  and  urged 
me  very  eloquently  to  learn  some  wonderful 
system  by  which  you  never  forgot  anything.  I 
don't  know  why  he  was  so  eager  on  the  subject, 
unless  it  be  that  I  occasionally  borrow  an  um^ 
brella,  and  have  a  knack  of  coming  out,  in  the 
middle  of  a  game  of  whist,  with  a  mild  "■  Lor! 
I've  been  thinking  all  along  that  clubs  were 
trumps."  I  declined  the  suggestion,  however,  in 
spite  of  the  advantages  he  so  attractively  set 
forth.  I  have  no  wish  to  remember  everything. 
There  are  many  things  in  most  men's  lives  that 
had  better  be  forgotten.  There  is  tliat  time, 
many  years  ago,  when  we  did  not  act  quite  as 
honorably,  quite  as  uprightly,  as  we,  perhaps, 
should  have  done — that  unfortunate  deviation 
from  the  path    of    strict    probity  we    once  com- 


ON  MEMORY.  199 

mitted,  and  in  which,  more  unfortunate  still,  we 
were  found  out — that  act  of  folly,  of  meanness,  of 
wrong.  Ah  well !  we  paid  the  penalty,  suffered 
the  maddening  hours  of  vain  remorse,  the  hot 
^gony  of  shame,  the  scorn,  perhaps,  of  those  we 
loved.  Let  us  forget.  Oh,  Father  Time,  lift 
with  your  kindly  hands  those  bitter  memories 
from  off  our  overburdened  hearts,  for  griefs  are 
ever  coming  to  us  with  the  coming  hours,  and 
our  little  strength  is  only  as  the  day. 

Not  that  the  past  should  be  buried.  The 
music  of  life  would  be  mute  if  the  chords  of 
memory  were  snapped  asunder.  It  is  but  the 
poisonous  weeds,  not  the  flowers,  that  we  should 
root  out  from  the  garden  of  Mnemosyne.  Do 
you  remember  Dickens's  **  Haunted  Man,*'  how 
he  prayed  for  forgetfulness,  and  how,  when  his 
prayer  was  answered,  he  prayed  for  memory  once 
more  ?  We  do  not  want  all  the  ghosts  laid.  It 
is  only  the  haggard,  cruel-eyed  specters  that  we 
flee  from.  Let  the  gentle,  kindly  phantoms 
haunt  us  as  they  will ;  we  are  not  afraid  of  them. 

Ah  me  !  the  world  grows  very  full  of  ghosts  as 
we  grow  older.  We  need  not  seek  in  dismal 
churchyards  nor  sleep  in  moated  granges,  to  see 


200  ON  MEMORY. 

their  shadowy  faces,  and  hear  the  rustling  of  their 
garments  in  the  night.  Every  house,  every  room, 
every  creaking  chair  has  its  own  particular  ghost. 
They  haunt  the  empty  chambers  of  our  lives, 
they  throng  around  us  like  dead  leaves,  whirled 
in  the  autumn  wind.  Some  are  living,  some  are 
dead.  We  know  not.  We  clasped  their  hands 
once,  loved  them,  quarreled  with  them,  laughed 
with  them,  told  them  our  thoughts  and  hopes 
and  aims,  as  they  told  us  theirs,  till  it  seemed  our 
very  hearts  had  joined  in  a  grip  that  would  defy 
the  puny  power  of  Death.  They  are  gone  now  ; 
lost  to  us  for  ever.  Their  eyes  will  never  look 
into  ours  again,  and  their  voices  we  shall  never 
hear.  Only  their  ghosts  come  to  us,  and  talk 
with  us.  We  see  them,  dim  and  shadowy, 
through  our  tears.  We  stretch  our  yearning 
hands  to  them,  but  they  are  air. 

Ghosts !  They  are  with  us  night  and  day. 
They  walk  beside  us  in  the  busy  street,  under 
the  glare  of  the  sun.  They  sit  by  us  in  the  twi- 
light at  home.  We  see  their  little  faces  looking 
from  the  windows  of  the  old  school-house.  We 
meet  them  in  the  woods  and  lanes,  where  we 
shouted  and  played  as  boys.     Hark!  cannot  you 


ON  MEMORY,  20 1 

hear  their  low  laughter  from  behind  the  black- 
berry bushes,  and  their  distant  whoops  along  the 
grassy  glades?  Down  here,  through  the  quiet 
fields,  and  by  the  wood,  where  the  evening 
shadows  are  lurking,  winds  the  path  where  we 
used  to  watch  for  her  at  sunset.  Look,  she  is 
there  now,  in  the  dainty,  white  frock  we  knew  so 
well,  with  the  big  bonnet  dangling  from  her  little 
hands,  and  the  sunny  brown  hair  all  tangled. 
Five  thousand  miles  away !  Dead  for  all  we 
know !  What  of  that  ?  She  is  beside  us  now, 
and  we  can  look  into  her  laughing  eyes,  and  hear 
her  voice.  She  will  vanish  at  the  stile  by  the 
wood,  and  we  shall  be  alone ;  and  the  shadows 
will  creep  out  across  the  fields,  and  the  night 
wind  will  sweep  past  moaning.  Ghosts !  they 
are  always  with  us,  and  always  will  be,  while  the 
sad  old  world  keeps  echoing  to  the  sob  of  long 
good-byes,  while  the  cruel  ships  sail  away  across 
the  great  seas,  and  the  cold,  green  earth  lies 
heavy  on  the  hearts  of  those  we  loved. 

But,  oh,  ghosts,  the  world  would  be  sadder  still 
without  you.  Come  to  us,  and  speak  to  us,  oh 
you  ghosts  of  our  old  loves  !  Ghosts  of  play- 
mates, and  of  sweethearts,  and  old  friends*  of  all 


202  ON  MEMORY. 

you  laughing  boys  and  girls,  oh,  come  to  us,  and 
be  with  us,  for  the  world  is  very  lonely,  and  new 
friends  and  faces  are  not  like  the  old,  and  we 
cannot  love  them,  nay,  nor  laugh  with  them  as 
we  have  loved  and  laughed  with  you.  And 
when  we  walked  together,  oh,  ghosts  of  our 
youth,  the  world  was  very  gay  and  bright ;  but 
now  it  has  grown  old,  and  we  are  growing  weary, 
and  only  you  can  bring  the  brightness  and  the 
freshness  back  to  us. 

Memory  is  a  rare  ghost  raiser.  Like  a  haunted 
house,  its  walls  are  ever  echoing  to  unseen  feet. 
Through  the  broken  casements  we  watch  the  flit- 
ting shadows  of  the  dead,  and  the  saddest  shad- 
ows of  them  all  are  the  shadows  of  our  own  dead 
selves. 

Oh,  those  young  bright  faces,  so  full  of  truth 
and  honor,  of  pure,  good  thoughts,  of  noble  long- 
ings, how  reproachfully  they  look  upon  us,  with 
their  deep,  clear  eyes  ! 

I  fear  they  have  good  cause  for  their  sorrow, 
poor  lads.  Lies  and  cunning,  and  disbelief  have 
crept  into  our  hearts  since  those  pre-shaving 
days — and  we  meant  to  be  so  great  and  good. 

It  is  well  we  cannot  see  into  the  future.     There 


ON  MEMORY,  203 

are  few  boys  of  fourteen  who  wec?.ld  not  feel 
ashamed  of  themselves  at  forty. 

I  like  to  sit  and  have  a  talk  soiiietimes  with 
that  odd  little  chap  that  was  myself  long  ago. 
I  think  he  likes  it  too,  for  he  comes  so  often  of 
an  evening  when  I  am  alone  with  my  pipe,  listen- 
ing to  the  whispering  of  the  flames  I  see  his 
solemn  little  face  looking  at  me  through  the 
scented  smoke  as  it  floats  upward,  and  I  smile  at 
him  ;  and  he  smiles  back  at  me,  but  his  is  such  a 
grave,  old-fashioned  smile.  We  chat  about  old 
times  ;  and  now  and  then  he  takes  me  by  the 
hand,  and  then  we  slip  through  the  black  bars  of 
the  grate  and  down  the  dusky  glowing  caves  to 
the  land  that  lies  behind  the  firelight.  There  we 
find  the  days  that  used  to  be,  and  we  wander 
along  them  together.  He  tells  me  as  we  walk 
all  he  thinks  and  feels.  I  laugh  at  him  now  and 
then,  but  the  next  moment  I  wish  I  had  not,  for 
he  looks  so  grave,  I  am  ashamed  of  being  frivol- 
ous. Besides,  it  is  not  showing  proper  respect  to 
one  so  much  older  than  myself — to  one  who  was 
myself  so  very  long  before  /  became  myself. 

We  don't  talk  much  at  first,  but  look  at  one 
another :  I  down  at  his  curly  hair  and  little  blue 


204  ON  MEMORY, 

bow,  he  up  sideways  at  me  as  he  trots.  And, 
somehow,  I  fancy  the  shy,  round  eyes  do  not 
altogether  approve  of  me,  and  he  heaves  a  little 
sigh,  as  though  he  were  disappointed.  But,  after 
a  while,  his  bashfulness  wears  off,  and  he  begins 
to  chat.  He  tells  me  his  favorite  fairy  tales, 
he  can  do  up  to  six  times,  and  he  has  a  guinea- 
pig,  and  pa  says  fairy  tales  aint  true  ;  and  isn't 
it  a  pity,  *cos  he  would  so  like  to  be  a  knight  and 
fight  a  dragon  and  marry  a  beautiful  princess. 
But  he  takes  a  more  practical  view  of  life  when 
he  reaches  seven,  and  would  prefer  to  grow  up, 
be  a  bargee,  and  earn  a  lot  of  money.  Maybe, 
this  is  the  consequence  of  falling  in  love,  which 
he  does  about  this  time,  with  the  young  lady  at 
the  milk-shop  aet.  six.  (God  bless  her  little  ever- 
dancing  feet,  whatever  size  they  may  be  now !) 
He  must  be  very  fond  of  her,  for  he  gives  her 
one  day  his  chiefest  treasure,  to  wit,  a  huge 
pocket-knife  with  four  rusty  blades  and  a  cork- 
screw, which  latter  has  a  knack  of  working  itself 
out  in  some  mysterious  manner,  and  sticking  into 
its  owner's  leg.  She  is  an  affectionate  little 
thing,  and  she  throws  her  arms  round  his  neck 
and  kisses  him  for  it,   then   and   there,   outside 


ON  MEMORY.  205 

the  shop.  But  the  stupid  world  (in  the  person 
of  the  boy  at  the  cigar  emporium  next  door)  jeers 
at  such  tokens  of  love.  Whereupon  my  young 
friend  very  properly  prepares  to  punch  the  head 
of  the  boy  at  the  cigar  emporium  next  door; 
but  fails  in  the  attempt,  the  boy  at  the  cigar 
emporium  next  door  punching  his  instead. 

And  then  comes  school  life,  with  its  bitter 
little  sorrows  and  its  joyous  shoutings,  its  jolly 
larks,  and  its  hot  tears  falling  on  beastly  Latin 
grammars  and  silly  old  copy-books.  It  is  at 
school  that  he  injures  himself  for  life — as  I 
firmly  believe — trying  to  pronounce  German ; 
and  it  is  there,  too,  that  he  learns  of  the  impor- 
tance attached  by  the  French  nation  to  pens, 
ink,  and  paper.  ''  Have  you  pens,  ink,  and 
paper?"  is  the  first  question  asked  by  one 
Frenchman  of  another  on  their  meeting.  The 
other  fellow  has  not  any  of  them,  as  a  rule,  but 
says  that  the  uncle  of  his  brother  has  got  them 
all  three.  The  first  fellow  doesn't  appear  to  care 
a  hang  about  the  uncle  of  the  other  fellow's 
brother;  what  he  wants  to  know  now  is,  has 
the  neighbor  of  the  other  fellow's  mother  got 
'em?    **  The  neighbor  of  my  mother  has  no  pens, 


2o6  ON  MEMORY. 

no  ink,  and  no  paper,"  replies  the  other  man,  be- 
ginning to  get  wild.  "  Has  the  child  of  thy 
female  gardener  some  pens,  some  ink,  or  some 
paper?"  He  has  him  there.  After  worrying 
enough  about  these  wretched  inks,  pens,  and 
paper  to  make  everybody  miserable,  it  turns  out 
that  the  child  of  his  own  female  gardener  hasn't 
any.  Such  a  discovery  would  shut  up  any  one 
but  a  French  exercise  man.  It  has  no  effect  at 
all,  though,  on  this  shameless  creature.  He 
never  thinks  of  apologizing,  but  says  his  aunt  has 
some  mustard. 

So,  in  the  acquisition  of  more  or  less  useless 
knowledge,  soon  happily  to  be  forgotten,  boy- 
hood passes  away.  The  red-brick  schoolhouse 
fades  from  view,  and  we  turn  down  into  the 
world's  high  road.  My  little  friend  is  no  longer 
little  now.  The  short  jacket  has  sprouted  tails. 
The  battered  cap,  so  useful  as  a  combination  of 
pocket-handkerchief,  drinking-cup,  and  weapon 
of  attack,  has  grown  high  and  glossy ;  and  in- 
stead of  a  slate-pencil  in  his  mouth  there  is  a 
cigarette,  the  smoke  of  which  troubles  him,  for  it 
will  get  up  his  nose.  He  tries  a  cigar  a  little 
later  on,    as    being   more    stylish — a   big,    black 


ON  MEMORY.  207 

Havannah.  It  doesn't  seem  altogether  to  agree 
with  him,  for  I  find  him  sitting  over  a  bucket  in 
the  back  kitchen  afterwards,  solemnly  swearing 
never  to  smoke  again. 

And  now  his  moustache  begins  to  be  almost 
visible  to  the  naked  eye,  whereupon  he  immedi- 
ately takes  to  brandy-and-sodas,  and  fancies  him- 
self a  man.  He  talks  about  '*  two  to  one  against 
the  favorite,"  refers  to  actresses  as  "  Little 
Emmy,"  and  "  Kate  "  and  "  Baby,"  and  murmurs 
about  his  "  losses  at  cards  the  other  night,"  in  a 
style  implying  that  thousands  have  been  squan- 
dered, though,  to  do  him  justice,  the  actual 
amount  is  most  probably  one-and-twopence. 
Also,  if  I  see  aright — for  it  is  always  twilight  in 
this  land  of  memories — he  sticks  an  eyeglass  in 
his  eye,  and  stumbles  over  everything. 

His  female  relations,  much  troubled  at  these 
things,  pray  for  him  (bless  their  gentle  hearts !) 
and  see  visions  of  Old  Bailey  trials  and  halters  as 
the  only  possible  outcome  of  such  reckless  dissi- 
pation ;  and  the  prediction  of  his  first  school- 
master, that  he  would  come  to  a  bad  end, 
assumes  the  proportions  of  inspired  prophecy. 

He  has  a  lordly  contempt  at  this  age  for  the 


2o8  ON  MEMORY. 

Other  sex,  a  blatantly  good  opinion  of  himself, 
and  a  sociably  patronizing  manner  towards  all  the 
elderly  male  friends  of  the  family.  Altogether, 
it  must  be  confessed,  he  is  somewhat  of  a 
nuisance  about  this  time. 

It  does  not  last  long,  though.  He  falls  in  love 
in  a  little  while,  and  that  soon  takes  the  bounce 
out  of  him.  I  notice  his  boots  are  much  too 
small  for  him  now,  and  his  hair  is  fearfully  and 
wonderfully  arranged.  He  reads  poetry  more 
than  he  used,  and  he  keeps  a  rhyming  dictionary 
in  his  bedroom.  Every  morning,  on  the  floor, 
Emily  Jane  find  scraps  of  torn-up  paper,  and 
reads  thereon  of  "  cruel  hearts  and  love's  deep 
darts,"  of  "  beauteous  eyes  and  lovers'  sighs," 
and  much  more  of  the  old,  old  song  that  lads  so 
love  to  sing,  and  lassies  love  to  listen  to,  while 
giving  their  dainty  heads  a  toss,  and  pretending 
never  to  hear. 

The  course  of  love,  however,  seems  not  to 
have  run  smoothly,  for,  later  on,  he  takes  more 
walking  exercise  and  less  sleep,  poor  boy,  than  is 
good  for  him  ;  and  his  face  is  suggestive  of  any- 
thing but  wedding  bells  and  happiness  ever 
after. 


ON  MEMORY.  209 

And  here  he  seems  to  vanish.  The  little, 
boyish  self  that  has  grown  up  beside  me  as  we 
walked,  is  gone. 

I  am  alone,  and  the  road  is  very  dark.  I 
stumble  on,  I  know  not  how  nor  care,  for  the 
way  seems  leading  nowhere,  and  there  is  no  light 
to  guide. 

But  at  last  the  morning  comes,  and  I  find  that 
I  have  grown  into  myself. 


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'"'"""\     '"    ■ 

RETD    NOV     21981 

JAN  1  5  '.9S2 

AUG  "i  '^'  193/ 

OCT  2  9  •'OTB 

rre  twm  ^      ^  '8t 

PEU.CIR.3EP  ;,  71 

"^     ''^     5,03, 

JUM  1 6  ^""* 

OCT  30  Wl 

BEC.CIB.W    (.   71- 

AP 

^  3  0  1985 

lECClRAPRlQiggs 

Rf.    (:|h        •,  ..  2  c.     v 

JUN261987 

: 

wniBSt  JUN  2  2 1987 

ORM  NO.  DD  6,  40m,  6'76 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKEL 
BERKELEY,  CA   94720 


GENERAL  LIBRARY -U.C.  BERKELEY 


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